The Wilderness Within

It's Clive Barker's Fault...Kind Of...

2012-03-01T20:58:00.000-08:00

Upon reading Clive Barker for the first time in the 80s, reading volume one of the Books of Blood, having been prodded by Stephen King's famous blurb, "I have seen the future of horror, his name is Clive Barker," two stark truths struck me as I got into those stories, "The Midnight Meat Train," "Pig Blood Blues," the astonishing, "In the Hills, the Cities," and the rest: Barker could write. He wasn't just a horror writer, he was a Writer, and horror was simply where he decided to sow his words, a crop that has expanded to include the fantastique as much as horror over the passing years.

And the other stark truth?

His tales made me uncomfortable.

I Loved It!

Writers who dig into the brain, into the deepest realms of the psyche and touch me, those are always the ones I go back to again and again.  J.G. Ballard did this repeatedly, but at that time in the horror field, nobody was shaking it up on that level; okay, let me reconsider this statement, because about then, another huge influence and no-holds barred writer, Joe R. Lansdale, was riding shotgun with Barker, as Barker kicked in the door to all pre-conceived Hells and added more blood and depth (layers, and you know I love layers) to the process, smiling impishly all the way. In their wake, the splatterpunks and like-minded graphic blood-spattered graffiti artists posing as writers swarmed in and it got messy. Fun, sure, but messy. ;-)

"I forbid my mind nothing." That's probably my favorite quote ever. It's from Barker. This way of thinking and approaching it with his fiction, and showing us exactly what that means...it was bliss to my young, malleable writing mind. I wasn't even thinking stories back then--well, derivative ideas as stories, some okay, most just half-formed, stepping stones on the way to now, but raw, so raw--more so writing lyrics and occasional poetry, all of it in need of direction; just stuff, just getting it out, snippets as brain shrapnel, observations of the world and more; manifestoes for life that co-workers taped on their refrigerators; any excuse to put pen to paper and Say Something. I had no real idea where I was going in life. I was young and as half-formed as the stories back then. But over time I gained focus, direction, stories demanded the ink to leave their mark. Later than some, but not so late, I finally decided to write and mean it. And so on and so forth and back to Barker and what he did.

He opened the door to the full breadth of imagination for me; an imagination that keeps expanding exponentially as I go along, learning and writing and exploring.  His stories there, and deeper into the other Books of Blood--I still cannot read the opening sequence to "Jacqueline Ess: Her Will and Testament" without squirming as she turns a man into a box, done with such visceral freedom, such amazing imagination--ignited something within me. An understanding that writing with no inhibitions, as I had always done but not really done, if you know what I mean, well, that was the path for me. No Inhibitions and Meaning It. A mantra for me, a tattoo as yet inked, those letters, those ideals, I swear, mean so much to me. Art with restrictions is bullshit. Reach deep and pull out that which you are afraid to put on the page and do it no matter your fear. You'll appreciate what it brings to your words, as I do. To the stories. The stories people remember.

The point is, Barker showed the way, opened that door and I realized I could put all those explicit, harsh, demented, or simply psychologically disturbing words down, shape them into stories, and perhaps make somebody else squirm with joy as well.

I thank him for it all, one of our finest Writers no matter where he takes his tales.

And seeing Hellraiser on the big screen when it was released, another revelation.  Here was a movie unafraid to take horror to the most perverse and darkest places (at least at that time). Then Nightbreed, so imperfect, yet a sheen of something special is in there, and his love of the monsters, another lesson learned, it's okay to love the monsters; this is touched on in a sideways manner in my story, "Plastic," from my collection, The Dark is Light Enough for Me, if you're paying attention...

And he can paint? Okay, now he's pushing it. ;-) Yes, with textural dynamics and, again, images that dive into the perverse and the beautiful, Barker's paintings are the perfect visual accompaniment for his writing style. Full-bodied and breathing...alive!

Enough riffing, not even sure what I've written, but let's get this one out there before I decide to ramble on about The Great and Secret Show, one of my fave novels Ever! I could go on for pages about Barker, but this is a blog and gotta just let it go, man, gotta let it gooooooo...

Here's one of my fave pieces of Barker's art, the cover for the Books of Blood Volume 3, referencing "Son of Celluloid"--oh my, That One!

The man's a genius. "Nuff said.

As Dark as it gets? Grave Demand presents "Broken Teacup."

2012-02-24T17:02:00.001-08:00

Yes, this may be as Dark as it gets, or at least in the running, though in stating that, the story deals with love, baby, love sweet love...and the desire to know exactly what it is. Which in this case and with these characters gets extremely explicit and messed up in ways you cannot imagine. Trust me, you really can't. Okay, perhaps some of you sick folks can, which is what "Broken Teacup" deals with. Our host, Bobby, and his scummy best friend, Lemmy, and their newly recruited cohort, Elvis. Bobby and Lemmy create Power Electronics noise laced with perverse samples, all based on bands I have had the pleasure of hearing, reviewing, and wondering as to their status as human beings--negligible at best?--and more. (And enjoying. Admit it, John Claude, you're as sick as...) After events open up, they move on to internet snuff videos and it only gets worse from there. A trip to the SF East Bay from their humble abode amidst the blood-spattered landscape of Texas sets them up to meet the title character and...

What?

Oh, yes, you were wondering what kind of title that was for such a depraved piece of horror fiction, eh? Well, out cruisin' one morning, Bobby spots a woman and...well, let's let him take over. Here's a sample, crude as it needs to be.

***

“There. Over there. Look at her.”

“What? It’s Sunday morning and there ain’t nohookers—”

“Fuck that, she’slookin’ for some action. She’s perfect,look at her.”

I was smitten bythis dyed blond bitch with a rockin’ shape and looking all nervous andshit. If she’s hooking, it’s clear it’snot been for long, that’s for sure. She’s got victim stamped onto her corneas with that pleading look.

“She’s perfect,look at her eyes, that desperate look, she really needs something, boys. And that smile, kind of like a broken teacup,some kind of beautiful design scarred, chipped, she’s barely hanging on, can’tyou see it? Can’t you see her future,peering into the broken teacup and reading the tea leaves and there’s nothingleft but this dismal existence…?”

Lemmy pulled thecar past her, into the Lucky grocery store parking lot. I know I looked hard at her when we passedby, so obvious what she was doing. Thebrakes squealed as we stopped and the car felt hot, like death and sex and moredeath just waiting to be distributed.

“Well,Shakespeare, I think your eloquent description is a prime example of what Mr.Liu is looking for, so I’ll—”

“No, I’ll gether. I’ll…do her. I’ll give Mr. Liu everything he wants, andmore.”

“What the fuck,you gonna get your hands dirty, eh?”

Without looking athim, and with no malice: “Fuck you. I’vekilled before, just because you get most of that out of the way don’t mean Iwon’t do it again. Like now.”

“Don’t scrunchyour scrotum, pal. She’s yours.”

I was love-struck,but my love was dangerous. Everythingabout this damaged bitch had my balls tingling and my cock starting to strainin my jeans.

I leaned out of thepassenger side window, waved her over. She was still looking at me; I saw an impression of a smile caress herlips, not really taking hold. God damn,this was too easy—and I wanted her. Something in me really wanted to destroy her, break her into a thousandlittle pieces.

***

A lot of my stories deal with love in all it's grand and miniscule and harsh and heartfelt ways. You read that tidbit and think these are simply bad guys and why should you care, but there's so much more going on.

Especially when the mysterious Mr. Liu makes his appearance and all hell, heaven, and imagination gone wild springboards into focus. The story may seem like it's got no redeeming quality, but it's got layers of possibilities being explored, options, choices, even love...if Bobby understands his predicament.

Don't want to give too much away, but must say, of all the short stories I've ever written, this one is right there among my favorite two or three. It originated after reading a piece by John Everson in which the main character was just bad news, yet by the end of the story, the reader was made to somehow care for him. Same deal here, to some extent. (Not unlike "I Wish I Was A Pretty Little Girl" from my collection, The Dark is Light Enough for Me, which really makes readers uncomfortable at the beginning, but by the end, an understanding is formed, which is all I can ask, hehe...) (Yes, I am an insidious soul sometimes!) (And, please, tell me you've bought the collection.)

The magazine with the cajones to publish this truly hardcore piece of fiction is a new one, Grave Demand. I'm delighted to be in their debut issue. Here's what they say they want to publish:

"Grave Demand Magazine is dedicated to producing uncompromising articles and fiction that are too extreme for mainstream. Incendiary and transgressive content with a purpose: to broaden and illuminate the darkest aspects of the human condition."

Sounds Perfect for a lot of what I write. I've read samples of the other work, some rough, rough stuff. Finally, a magazine that asks for "too extreme" and backs it up! I'm anxiously awaiting my contributor's copy and info on ordering will come through any day now. I will post that info as soon as I get it so you can buy a copy and support what promises to be quite a magazine for the extreme horror enthusiasts!

http://www.gravedemand.com/

Here's the cover art. Looks like I'm in stellar company. Can't wait for all of you to get your hands on this one.

;-)

Lovecraftian Horror: "Dark Ambient Metamorphosis" Sound & Vision in the Lovecraft eZine.

2012-02-19T13:55:00.000-08:00

That's a lot of Lovecraft going 'round there, eh?

"Dark Ambient Metamorphosis" is my attempt at writing something completely modern with a Lovecraft vibe. I don't use any of his creations, yet the story has elements that 'feel' like they would fit into his world, perhaps. I used to write music journalism, including a million and a half or so music reviews. I took that knowledge and my love of weird music--dark ambient, power electronics, noise, all the side avenues of sound that relate--to create this story, which might also have a Clark Ashton Smith vibe, if only for the use of sound as an instrument in, well...wait a minute! I cannot tell you everything. You simply have to click on the link and check it out, as well as the other stories, as I will be doing right after I post this. I've enjoyed reading previous issues of the Lovecraft eZine, so I'm quite happy to be a part of the TOC in this one.

http://lovecraftzine.com/issues/issue-11-february-2012/

When you click on that link, you have the option of reading the story as well as listening to it! Yes, this is the first audio take of one of my stories and it's sensational. Mars Homeworld does the reading and some special tweaking for the alien language that is sooooooo damn good. My hats off to Lovecraft eZine for the great presentation, the strangebeautiful artwork by Galen Dara, and this truly unique reading because...because...How in the world did he learn to speak that bizarre language so fluently? Hmmm...I wonder if Mars Homeworld is even really human.

O.o

I'm in impressive company, what with A.J. French, W.H.Pugmire & Jacob Henry, Mike Davis, Patricia Correll, and Brian M. Sammons. Thanks to everybody involved. Good reading to be had there!

* * *

I should also point you in the direction of my latest interview. I'm up at Wombat World, a blog by the excellent writer and Internet Royalty, Kate Laity. It's her Writer Wednesday feature and I had a lot of fun answering the questions. Looks great, too. Here's the link:

http://networkedblogs.com/tZOfW

* * *

I also had one of my personal fave short stories I've ever written, "Broken Teacup," published in the inaugural issue of Grave Demand, a magazine and story I will get into more once I am holding it in my hands and they have their ordering links set up. This one needs more talk, because it's a story that goes to places you cannot even imagine.

* * *

Also (another 'also,' John Claude; c'mon, you're pushing it!) sold a story to the Peep Show Volume 2 anthology, which is a wild bit of circularity. Is that a word? I don't care, I'm going to coin it now for this tidbit. I had a story way back in...what was it? 2004? I had a story published in the first volume of that anthology, "The Sunglasses Girl," under my former pen name, John Kiel Alexander. Well, I'm back in the follow-up volume using my real name with a story called, "The Misfits of Mayhem Meet Their Match." Yes, alliteration madness prevails! Can you stand it? :-P

***

Speaking of which...the collection. Here's the pertinent links for The Dark is Light Enough for Me.
Enjoy, buy it and make me happy, check out the new reviews; heck, check em alllllll out!

Amazon.com:

http://www.amazon.com/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1320955068&sr=8-1

Amazon.co.uk

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1320958608&sr=8-1

Barnes & Noble:

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1107159029?ean=2940013567245&itm=1&usri=the%252bdark%252bis%252blight%252benough%252bfor%252bme

OmniLit:

http://www.omnilit.com/product-thedarkislightenoughforme-638242-238.html

Amazon Germany:
http://www.amazon.de/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1321156971&sr=8-1

Amazon France:

http://www.amazon.fr/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1321231116&sr=8-1

Lots of good reading to be...er...I-I already said that, this, whatever. Here's the cover art for the Lovecraft eZine. Dig Mike Dominic's outstanding work!

My Bloody, HEARTfelt Valentine: "Numb."

2012-02-13T05:52:00.000-08:00

In 2005, I went through a relationship break-up, wallowing in the misery, the whole damn deal. Life made no sense. After a few months of simply existing, and barely at that, I started writing again. A bunch of short stories came out of that, writing leading me out of my internal darkness. Yeah, yeah, I know, I love the darkness, I love going there and spending time with the dark characters and more, the monsters and madness, but this was a different, less appealing kind of darkness. After a dozen or so short stories, I remember on September 6, 2005, sitting down in front of my computer and saying out loud, "I am going to write a novel." And I did, my first, more details on that at another point, because the focus here is on one of those stories. Story number two.

"Numb."

This one has been published twice: in From The Asylum, an online zine--actually, it was also in the yearly print anthology they did, too; and in The Hive Mind, another online zine that has a few other pieces by me. Both times it has been published it has been for Valentine's Day.

How friggin' devious.

You see, it's not a cheerful affair at all. It was a miserable time and this cold, sharp little excursion into self-mutilation was the result of that time. But since it deals with love, though love lost, in a visceral, fantastical, yet still very emotional, though more so emotionally dead way, um...the editors and yours truly have always felt it had the appropriate jolt for the Valentine's Day blues.

An interesting aside before I post it: this is one of those stories that people who are perhaps in a similar mindset, lives in turmoil, love out of whack, they really latch onto it. I have found it in online searches a couple times or more. Once, a young woman/girl on myspace, who's picture made me think perhaps she DID understand it. And once by a young man who I believe was stationed overseas, a part of the troops over there--this was a few years ago, according to the date of the blog--and it was one of the last blog posts he posted. I may be a bit off in this but, either way, I always find that a bit disconcerting. I wonder...

But, for your reading pleasure, here's a taste of what it's really like when one's heart is...well, more than broken.

*evil, very evil grin*
[oh, my, what an evil person you are, John Claude, to smile like that while knowing what's next...]

***

Numb
by
John Claude Smith

He feelsnothing: numb, empty…

He resorts tocutting himself as an exercise in sensation, in trying to feel something at atime when he feels nothing.

But even that doesnot break through.

He still feelsnothing.

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

He did not careabout how rude it came off.

He does not careabout much of anything.

But her. Alicia. The woman he loves.

The woman who lefthim.

(How could sheleave me? How could she give up onus? The thoughts roll by in his headlike a never ending freight train, its self-destructive cargo branded intorturous repetition.)

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

Nothing.

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

Still, he is numb.

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

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

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

The thick muscle’srhythm is consistent, even though this more extreme exercise would normallyrender one dead.

He feels deadinside already, so…

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

And still feelsnothing.

Well, what is thepoint of it all, then?

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

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

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

He hasn’t slept inweeks.

He drives to whereshe lives. Sitting in the car, he staresat the apartment where she rents a room.

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

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

No reason to knockor ring the doorbell; let her sleep. Letthem all sleep.

Maybe someday hewill sleep again as well…

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

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

Perhaps thisgesture will help her to understand.

Perhaps she willjust scream.

Numb, he drivesalone into the deep and uncaring night….

***

Always odd for me to read some of those stories and the novel, though I can do it quite easily now without it all dredging up memories that hurt. I am still here. And the path of my life has finally led me to the woman I was always meant to be with, my Beautiful Alessandra. She helps this strange ride make sense. I have taken it all in and continue to live, learn, love, crash and burn--more than once, of course--and love again.

And write about it.

Yes, that is a Heart in a box of chocolates! What? Oh, yeah, quite icky! Now, if the heart was dipped in chocolate, that might make for a special Love treat. Hmmm...

;-)

Author Platform: Literary Horror or...

2012-02-09T18:06:00.000-08:00

So, when I started this writing gig many moons ago, the world was a very different place. Now being a writer entails so much more than simply writing. There's blogs, promotions of this and that sort, a dozen times a dozen Other Things to deal with, all related to the central cause of getting your name out there and getting noticed.

There's also this thing that's imperative, it seems: Building your Author Platform.

Finding that thing about your writing, that niche, that people can go to when they want there fill of that type of fiction (or non-fiction) as related to genre as related to...well, it's a quandary when you write as I do. But I've decided what I do, as has been noted in observations by my agent and other astute readers, as well as an inner acknowledgement I've known all along, is literary horror.

So...I am John Claude Smith: Literary Horror Writer.

But...that doesn't seem to say enough about what I do, at least not to yours truly. Hmmm...

Perhaps I will borrow from some of the reviewers.

One reviewer said I "transport the reader far beyond the horror genre." How can I incorporate that? John Claude Smith: Literary Horror Writer who transports the reader far beyond the horror genre. Sure, I kind of like that. It's more honest. As in, yeah, it's dark literary stuff, not all horror, but when it bites down, it hurts, baby.

Perphaps that's what I need to add. Let's see how that reads: John Claude Smith: Literary Horror Writer who transports the reader far beyond the horror genre, dark literary stuff, not all horror, but when it bites down, it hurts, baby. Hmmm...

I think we're getting there.

Another reviewer states my writing, "isn't for the sensitive or the faint-hearted. Many of the stories are edgy, working on concepts and thoughts that all us adults are familiar with, but rarely talk about. Smith isn't being quirky, or finding satisfaction in the gory, sexually perverse or the profane. No, he is writing this stuff because it unbalances the reader. Disturbs. Sometimes frightens - the essence of what quality horror/dark fantasy is all about."

I like that. Let's see how I can fit some of that in: John Claude Smith is a Literary Horror Writer who transports the reader far beyond the horror genre, dark literary stuff, not all horror, but when it bites down, it hurts, baby. It's not for the faint-hearted. Many of the stories are edgy, working on concepts and thoughts that all us adults are familiar with, but rarely talk about. His writing unbalances the reader. Disturbs. Sometimes frightens--the essence of what quality horror/dark fantasy is all about.

Almost there. It, um...almost feels write, er, right. But...

Another reviewer had this to say: "...behind the window-dressings of dark, speculative fiction we find the musings of a philosopher. The concepts of guilt, ennui, ostracism, addiction and rage are examined just as keenly by Smith and his horror as they would have been by the likes of Sartre, Camus, Kafka, Nietzsche and Kant. The reader is forced to think along with feel, a dark dialogue open straight into your psyche."

Well, something of this needs to be added, to really define what I do as a Literary Horror writer, y'know? Let me mix it all up here.

John Claude Smith is a Literary Horror Writer who transports the reader far beyond the horror genre. Dark literary stuff, not all horror, but when it bites down, it hurts, baby. It's not for the faint-hearted. Many of the stories are edgy, working on concepts and thoughts that all us adults are familiar with, but rarely talk about. His writing unbalances the reader. Disturbs. Sometimes frightens--the essence of what quality horror/dark fantasy is all about. Behind the window-dressings of dark, speculative fiction we find the musings of a philosopher. The concepts of guilt, ennui, ostracism, addiction and rage are examined with a fine-tooth precision akin to Sartre, Camus, Kafka, Nietzsche and Kant. The reader is forced to think along with feel, a dark dialogue open straight into your psyche.

I forgot to add another fave, "not your average horror." And what of an observation in a private message on FB today: "You write "sitting on the patio with a glass of wine" stuff. Non-rushing, thinking, rethinking, mind exercising work." (But it's horror, remember; or at least pitch black.)

Let's see, how can I...

Ahem.

John Claude Smith is a Literary Horror Writer who transports the reader far beyond the horror genre. Dark literary stuff, not your average horror, but when it bites down, it hurts, baby. It's not for the faint-hearted. Many of the stories are edgy, working on concepts and thoughts that all us adults are familiar with, but rarely talk about. His writing unbalances the reader. Disturbs. Sometimes frightens--the essence of what quality horror/dark fantasy is all about. Behind the window-dressings of dark, speculative fiction we find the musings of a philosopher. The concepts of guilt, ennui, ostracism, addiction and rage are examined with the fine-tooth precision akin to Sartre, Camus, Kafka, Nietzsche and Kant. The reader is forced to think along with feel, a dark dialogue open straight into your psyche. Sitting on the patio with a glass of wine, non-rushing, rethinking, mind exercising work.

3, 2, 1...[vacuum sucking sound as John Claude's head implodes]

[deep breaths, the head re-inflates like a tattered balloon]

I think...I think we'll tone it all down to:

John Claude Smith is a Literary Horror Writer. With a twist. Of acid. On your brain. And...

And!

Can't I just say I'm a writer of dark stuff for dark minds?

There! That works!

John Claude Smith writes Dark Stuff for Dark Minds.

Or perhaps...

:-P

It's a never ending quest, my friends.

;-)

That's right! Kick back with your bunny slippers and your pipe filled with something besides tobacco, have a sip o' the good poison, and like this devil, enjoy my collection, The Dark is Light Enough for Me. Literary Horror: Dark Stuff for Dark Minds. Dig it!

With a twist...

[Shhhh, John!]

The Good, The Bad and The Ugly: Cover Art Shenanigans.

2012-02-04T21:08:00.000-08:00

Actually, working with the art team at Ampichellis, which is one person who knows and appreciates my work, it was a rather good give and take of ideas being tossed around. Though there was some bad and ugly, we kept twisting things until we got it right. Take my hand as I guide you along the stained yellow brick road we traveled in order to get to the amazing cover art for my collection, The Dark is Light Enough for Me.

My girlfriend, Alessandra, suggested a Vanitas-style piece would be appropriate for my dark words. Subtle, a skull and candle and book, something like that. We suggested this, and below are some examples of what Ampichellis came up with:

The last one kinda works, eh? Tasty. The first two are okay as well, though perhaps a little too clean.

At about this time, Alessandra and I thought we found the perfect vanitas, one that made sense to us. But within a week or two after we had made our discovery, while browsing in a book store in Rome, lo and behold and what the heck, there it was, on a new release by Iain Pears (or re-issue, I am not sure) and...wait a bloody minute! Researching his work, to pull up the title to show you the art, I do not see it! Was it another writer? I think not, I'm quite sure it was Mr. Pears. Was it a hallucination? Did we magically see the art on a book that does not exist, at least not in this world (perhaps in the AlternaWorld!), so as to deter us from choosing it, suggesting it to the art department and...

This quandary may never be resolved. A mystery, just like what Mr. Pears deals in. Hmmm...

As we got deeper into the process, I suggested a few pieces by Heironymus Bosch, or possibly something by Goya. The sense of Weird, of horror but something beyond horror in both of these artist's paintings, worked well for my head. I was politely informed that, "Those dead folks are out of our financial range," or something to that effect. As in, "hey, are you crazy, John Claude? Do you think money grows on trees?" Alas, I can dream.

Then there was the girl with the pitch black eyes, "The Sunglasses Girl," referencing that wicked piece of fiction from the collection. A way early mock-up shows just the idea, quite imperfect, but the gist is there. I kind of liked this but knew something would have to be added. Not sure what, though I remember having an idea for a tattoo that relates to the book, the story--a rat, perhaps. Here she is, a striking contrast to the other pieces as well as within the photo itself, what with the blonde hair, pale skin...and those eyes.

Scary, or simply odd, and not quite my sunglasses girl--she had dark hair--but still an intriguing side-step.

I have deleted or misfiled a few of the other covers I wish I had to show you. There was the gargoyle one, rather simple, deep red, looked nice. There was the quirky one with a woman laying down, a brick wall with figures rather like ghosts watching over her, which was close for me, but it needed something more as well. Always something more with me, hehe... Though I can see with some work it might be good for my next collection because of a thematic element for that one that it hooks into quite nicely. Then there was the ultimately freaky peacock with the brilliant green background, as in, a peacock head, all its color, and a background, not a landscape, just a brilliant green background and, I swear, I really looked hard at that one. I knew it was not right, yet something there worked. Alessandra loved it but, again, we knew it was not right for this collection, yet I ended up looking for something else that related and found another peacock piece of art I loved, capturing the beauty and strangeness that the collection needed, but we could not find out who the artist was on that piece...and I don't think the art department was as taken by it as I was.

Onward.

Then there were these two, which really appealled to my love of...of what? They simply worked for me because of their rather stark, grainy look and color tones. I especially like the one on the left, like that layout, which might be why we made a variation of that for the final product. [looks again] No, actually I think it was the one on the right I liked the most, but with the layout of the one on the left. I believe that was my suggestion. [looks again, tilts head, marbles ricochet off my cranium]

Has my tense gone wacky here? Excuse me...anyway, here they are.

But as much as I like these, and could see something like this being used by a publisher as a standard look for a horror book line, we kept looking. Apparently, we all felt that ever-present "something more" would be better...and we were right.

When they initially sent me the art with the woman with her hands over her eyes, palms open to reveal those eyes, I was hesitant because it immediately made me think, "Pan's Labyrinth." I thought that would be the focus of others upon seeing it. But, she's different. Dirtier. A suggestion of sensuality. A weird mix. And gloves. Odd in ways that drew me into her grimy charms. But what really made it work for me was that over the span of a few days, and with many truly mangled layout takes on this woman, the art department pulled up that damn freaky, bleak room and put it right below her.

Now we were on to that something more we were searching for. See, for me, the element of horror as mixed with the strange that she brings is essential, a perfect companion, the perfect visual accompaniment for the stories. But adding that room, something that suggested an overwhelming ambience of wrong, of dread thick and clinging to the walls, with a history so dark--despite the harsh light, which only magnifies this sensation for me--I want to know the stories it tells. Yes, that room, the stories IT tells, ahhhh...if the walls could talk, eh? I knew we finally had what we needed. I knew it contained that something more we so wanted. Here She is, along with The Dark Room:

So pretty, my monstrous, nightmare mistress. No, wait, Alessandra, just kidding, honey, I don't dream of her...oh no. hehe... But that room, yeah. The Dark Room. There's a story there, perhaps many, and I want to discover those stories. Perhaps in dreams.

I'm listening...

Are you listening? Are you reading my book? Have you bought it yet? Well, here's the Amazon.com link which includes both the digital and print hook-up. It's also available via B&N and OmniLit. Check it out, buy it, review it, talk to me about it, "like" the page. Let me know you're out there...

http://www.amazon.com/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1320955068&sr=8-1

Oh, and as a final salvo tossed your way, we did think about putting an author photo on the print version, but apparently nothing was thought appropriate, I don't really know. I mean, I thought those nekkid ones might help sell a few copies for the sheer audacity of using them. But the art department said, "Yes, you pervert, you might think them appropriate, but not with the penguin!" Or, um...there was this one from probably thirty years ago, a photo of "The author as a misguided young man," moments before he tumbled backwards into the SF Bay...or was shoved over the edge, deservedly so. Oy! Now THAT'S a scary picture!

Fred is My South Park Kenny: "Mutinous Facial Abstractions."

2012-02-01T20:04:00.000-08:00

Fred is my good friend. I've known him for 28 years, give or take a couple. He has made it into a handful of stories, usually ending up dead, yet back again in another story, only to end up either getting his throat slashed in a strip club ("The Lust Vacuum"), or simply referenced during needle to the vein shenanigans ("The Anatomy of Addiction"). He's even one of the main characters of my novel being shopped around, The Wilderness Within, and I can't even get into what happens there, oh no! Some surprises are worth the wait. Actually, the house by the forest in that novel is loosely based on his house up in Northern California.

He is my South Park Kenny. Always coming back for more.

In the stories which I have Fred in mind, I usually call him Frank, though on occasion, he's Fred. Now, as a reference for character, sure, I start with him, but the character diverts enough into a fictional alter-ego to make the reference more for my amusement than anything else.

Anyway, the following flash fiction piece, originally published in Nocturnal Ooze in 2003, stars Fred...and what happens to him in this piece veers heavy into bizarro fiction.

You might think twice about that toothache you've been trying to avoid after reading this one.

As with all the flash fiction pieces, they are more of the claw hammer lobotomy type, a blunt lil' blurt of weird and done. You want depth, check my collection, The Dark is Light Enough for Me. (Amazon print and ebook:

http://www.amazon.com/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1320955068&sr=8-1

B&N: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1107159029?ean=2940013567245&itm=1&usri=the%252bdark%252bis%252blight%252benough%252bfor%252bme

Also available via Amazon in the UK, Germany and France, as well as OmniLit.) Or hope, as I do, that a publisher comes along who loves the novel, because that one, oh yeah...layers, baby. But for now...Enjoy this bit o' bizarro, "Mutinous Facial Abstractions."

***

We each have a breaking point. Fred had reached his. He had tostop the voices in his head and he had to stop them now.

For six months he’d noticed the ever increasing rant of static voices asthey traipsed through his skull at all hours of the day and night. They’d started as slippery, snake-likewhispers coiled around his eardrums, indescribable clipped vocal blips thatnudged for space amidst his thoughts, but now they had escalated to a constant,thought devouring roar as they bored into his mind and corrupted everythingwithin the cramped confines of his aurally congested cranium. After two weeks of cat naps at best, it wastime to put an end to it. He needed hissleep.

It was the vibratory ache that pointed him in what he thought was theright direction, pointing him towards the two painfully pulsating fillings inthe back of the right side of his mouth. Uncertainty hung like a damp rag over a feverish forehead; he’d beenfeverish and moistly uncomfortable for the last week. He wasn’t sure if the fillings were the meansby which the voices had invaded his head, but he’d heard of instances in whicha filling (or fillings) had served as a receiver (or receivers) of nibbling,squealing distortion radio transmissions or some similarly alignedintrusion. He’d heard of thisphenomenon, not really sure of its validity, but it seemed as good aproposition as any.

Out of work for ten months, with no money or insurance, it was time toimprovise.

Fred took a swig of Jack Daniels, stuck the pliers in his mouth, graspedthe nearest of the two enamel culprits capped with the traitorous, unknownamalgamation of metals, and pulled.

As the muscles in his arms tensed, he grimaced and a scream gurgledamidst the iron and saliva as the tooth, with a caustic sucking sound, wasextricated from its bony roost. Hetossed it into the sink, spitting blood all the while, sweat pouring likeNiagara Falls, body quaking and shaking like San Francisco, and determinedlycontinued his uprooting. Two more shotsof Jack Daniels, squeeze, grip and pull, and the pain seemed to split his skullwith all the potency of an axe splitting wood as he ripped the second offenderout of his mouth.

But the voices still murmured, mysteriously present. Fred thought it was maybe an echo, maybe thefillings had left their final unwanted radio messages in the cavity of hismouth before being rudely dismissed for their irritating conduct. He leaned toward the mirror, mouth wide open,inspecting…when he saw them.

From the ragged red caverns where the teeth had once resided, tinycreatures climbed out, as if released from the prison of his jawbone. Like chrome-plated insects, but with faceslike scuffed baseballs--the scuffs indicative of blinking, droopy clusters ofeyes--and serrated mouths in constant movement, they clamored for space withinhis suddenly crowded mouth. He tried toclose it, to move his tongue, to spit them out, to no avail. They unhinged his jaw with the strength of theirexponentially accumulative presence.

The voices were loud again, a convoluted cacophony, abruptly silenced byhis shrill caterwauling.

Their response was pointed—a scalpel in search of skin—the voicesyelling in unison: “Shut up and do as we say.”

Fred was swift to shut up, despite the stunning turn of events.

“Get a spoon. We need you toscoop out the eyes to let out the rest.”

Fred’s initial thought, barely registering amidst the racket andinsanity overload, was, “Why couldn’t they just use the nostrils?” But already his keening whine, like awhirring dentist’s drill, soared towards an ear-shattering crescendo as hestared into the mirror. His mouth wasfull of these things, these tiny creatures, his bloated cheeks puffing out likethose of a happy chipmunk, gleefully swollen with a harvest of nuts.

He stared into the mirror, his aching eyes feeling like skewered onions,the pressure from behind and within causing them to bulge and roll obscenely,reminiscent of a chameleon’s disconnected visual perusal. With abrupt shock, his left eye wasjettisoned with all the force of a dislodged champagne cork, obscenely smackingthe mirror, before spinning like a roulette ball in the sink, finally restingin the drain and dully staring back up at him.  As more of the tiny creatures crawled out onto his face, Fred’sascending cries shattered the overhead light bulb and popped his eardrums. His stunned reflection was trapped within themirror’s cracked spider-web countenance.

He had succeeded in achieving the silence he had so wished to attain,but he knew the sleep that would follow would not be satisfying. It would be permanent.

In the dreary, dreadfully drawn out seconds before his right eyesuccumbed to the same ludicrous fate, with Death waiting in the wings, Fredstared in disbelief and dour fascination as the slightly pudgier thaninfinitesimal—and quite incomprehensible--invaders continued to scurry out fromwithin him, and his face started to crumple in on itself, a crinkled skinimplosion of soft, malleable flesh devoid of skeletal foundation.

***

Fun, eh? BTW, as an interesting aside, it should be noted that I have never had a cavity. Probably just my way of detering strange invaders.

Upcoming: a couple short stories are about ready to be published, another interview, etc., on and on. Join in, follow here, buy the book, please and thank you and...

Here's a picture of poor Kenny doing what he does best.
;-)

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

2012-01-29T22:19:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway, there IS an interview up at the aforementioned Inspiration Forum, fun stuff, here's the link:
http://www.inspirationforum.co.uk/showthread.php?tid=2400&fb_source=message

Read and enjoy! Please and thank you!

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

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

;-)

Amazon digital and print:

http://www.amazon.com/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1320955068&sr=8-1

Amazon Germany:

http://www.amazon.de/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1321156971&sr=8-1

Amazon France:

http://www.amazon.fr/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1321231116&sr=8-1

Amazon UK, Baby!

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1320958608&sr=8-1

B&N:

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1107159029?ean=2940013567245&itm=1&usri=the%252bdark%252bis%252blight%252benough%252bfor%252bme

OmniLit:

http://www.omnilit.com/product-thedarkislightenoughforme-638242-238.html

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

Enjoy!

The Bleak Poetry of Celebrity Lifestyles

2012-01-25T18:18:00.000-08:00

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

Yes, repulse!

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

Do you actually care? I mean...really? Why? And what the F**k is a Snooki? (I found out, actually, and utilized the info in...oh, wait, don't let me get ahead of myself.)

But...it does inspire some of my poetry. My head-shaking observations of the human race as it skids into a ditch brings out some vitriolic verses or slingshot stanzas or simply Words of Truth!!! [horns blaring, bows taken, thank you, thank you...]

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

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

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

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

Enjoy!

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

John Claude Smith

Born under the watchful eye of

Cathode “Ray” Cyclops--

a Jerry Bruckheimer Production!

in association with ESPN and Apple

digital convenience at your fingertips

(Blackberry; iPOD; iPAD)

God of Image and Narcissism

God of Forgotten Humanity

Wrung like blood-stained clothe

(CSI DNA CBS personalized SKU)

the celluloid ‘stains’ perceptions:

the EGO is the basis for all decisions:

what is good for me is good for me

SO (a Simon Cowell/Nightline Special Report)

Misguided under the watchful eye of

Cathode “Ray” Cyclops--

A Jerry Bruckheimer Production!

society’s jacked-in downloaded voyeuristic screen time

rolls infinitely like the credits to a James Cameronmovie

across the monitors within wasted twitterazzi minds

not Sony or Toshiba but Lindsey and Paris

Progenitors to the 21^st Century Child®

connections impersonal as the touch of flesh

and the simmer of Self-Love

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

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

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

See ya soon!

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

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

2012-01-20T11:07:00.000-08:00

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

Yeah, I'm back on the AlternaWorld.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Surreal...

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

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

Enjoy!

PRINT:
Amazon (yes, the links for digital and print should be connected, soon, but right now, asI type this, they are separate):
http://www.amazon.com/Dark-Light-Enough-Me/dp/1937070107/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1326858259&sr=1-1

Digital:
Amazon.com:
http://www.amazon.com/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1320955068&sr=8-1

Amazon.co.uk
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1320958608&sr=8-1

Barnes & Noble:

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1107159029?ean=2940013567245&itm=1&usri=the%252bdark%252bis%252blight%252benough%252bfor%252bme

OmniLit:

http://www.omnilit.com/product-thedarkislightenoughforme-638242-238.html

Amazon.co.uk

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1320958608&sr=8-1

Amazon Germany:

http://www.amazon.de/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1321156971&sr=8-1

Amazon France:

http://www.amazon.fr/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1321231116&sr=8-1

A double shot from Burroughs:

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

2012-01-15T19:14:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

"Smith goes elsewhere, a bleak universe that one gets glimpses of inworks by Harlan Ellison, H.P. Lovecraft, and occasionally Clive Barker. Theintellect powering these nightmares is a staggering, transcendental monster initself."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amazon.com:

http://www.amazon.com/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1320955068&sr=8-1

Amazon.co.uk

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1320958608&sr=8-1

Amazon Germany:

http://www.amazon.de/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1321156971&sr=8-1

Amazon France:

http://www.amazon.fr/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1321231116&sr=8-1

Barnes & Noble:

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1107159029?ean=2940013567245&itm=1&usri=the%252bdark%252bis%252blight%252benough%252bfor%252bme

OmniLit:

http://www.omnilit.com/product-thedarkislightenoughforme-638242-238.html

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

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

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

Art Inspired Words: "The Medusa Syndrome."

2012-01-10T22:52:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

Enjoy!

***

"My head’s asnake pit!" Ivan screamed. "I feel them inside me." Drool streamed on his chin, down his gunmetalgray uniform.

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

There was nothingthere but the scarlet mist. A mist thatwas moving of its own volition, as there was no wind to nudge it along.

And then the soundsliced through it all. Nord distinctlywatched the mist separate as the pitch warbled, almost vocal, not just into hisear, but into view. The sky rippled,assimilating the slithering chaos of the snake pit. Invisible snakes, more like vibrations withteeth.

The mysterioustattoo that had risen up from beneath Ivan’s face, surrounding hisfeatures, started to trickle blood. Theblood increased and he had the fleeting instinct to scream, but that wasclipped into echo as the circular incision suddenly caused Ivan's face to burstoff his head, like a manhole cover shooting skyward from too much pressure frombelow. The snakes were everywhere, snapping and hungry--vicious.
Nord tried to step backward but hislegs were frozen in place. He wasparalyzed, a human statue. He grewimmediately pensive, feeling the twitch at his ears, feeling thetickle as they nibbled his brain.

Feeling the tattoorise from within, circling around his shocked façade.

His last thoughtwas about how this strange devolution, something they‘d read about but thoughtimpossible--“somebody must be playing a joke on us”--proved the existence ofthe reptile brain. Proved it in a mostdisturbing way.

Sucking the gatheringmist into his heaving lungs, his eyes went slit and his face shot off, justlike Nord's.

***

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

BTW, don't forget, I have a collection of dark fiction/horror tales out right now called, The Dark is Light Enough for Me. Available via Amazon in the USA, UK, Germany and France, as well as B&N and OmniLit. Only ebook right now, but I have seen a photo of the print version which, after some of this and that, eye of newt, tongue of toad, whatever, it's finally about ready to be unleashed. I'll give sordid details and links here when that happens. But for those of you with digital readers, what's keeping you? Yeah, go out and buy a copy now (please), it's only $3.99, that's 12 stories at about 33 cents a story, well worth it, I think! hahaha...y'know...this being a salesman all the time is hilarious to me. I mean, in the old days, writers would send it off and the publisher would take care of promotions and, sure, you might do some signings and such, but nowadays, haha...so, I suppose tossing this out there now makes sense. Interviews. Yeah, I'll talk about the book and horror/dark fiction. Life. Italy. Whatever's good. Yeah, I'm talking to you, Letterman. Have your people call my people or, um, email me at least. Hahaha... (You think I'm kidding? I have a dream sequence scene in my first novel, The Corner of His Mind, that references a loony interview on Letterman.) And reviews? Well, if anybody actually reads this blog and is a reviewer or knows real reviewers, let me see your blog/website/magazine, I'm sure I can get you a free pdf or even kindle or nook ready version.
You can contact me via email ( jcsmith0919@yahoo.com ) but, yes, I know, I know, I must contact them as well...and am, and have, and will and...

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

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

Onward!

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

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

2012-01-03T22:27:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

;-)

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

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

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

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

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

Will this post make sense?

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

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

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

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

***

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

And there was thewoman. She danced for him, a recklessfrenzy that flowed with confidence and sensuality. A celebration of abandoned inhibitions. He immersed himself in the erotic intensityshe exuded as the forest fell silent, receding into the background as she tookcenter stage. The moon’s spotlightshowcased her as she danced.

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

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

Straddling hiships, she slowly lowered herself onto his erection; an erection held atunwavering attention. He tried to diverthis thoughts from their impending coupling, wary of such intenseyearnings. But try as he may, the closershe got, the more he wanted to see her moistness, to watch her as he had soattentively watched her all along, engulf him. He saw something silvery drip onto his cock, but it was too late. She took him--

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

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

...

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

***

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

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

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

So, stepping away from this bit o' fun, have you bought my collection yet? If you haven't, what's keeping you? If you have, let me know what you think. I'll even post my email address here. We'll see if anybody is paying attention.

;-) jcsmith0919@yahoo.com

It's available via B&N, OmniLit, Amazon in the UK, Germany and France, and here, I'll post the Amazon.com link for you to at least take a gander at the reviews, the book, check the Look Inside function, read "Black Wings" and part of the title story...and buy it! I mean, y'know, there may be a future post on reviews and what exactly hooks somebody into buying a book, if they decide because of a review. I am curious. I mean, there's stuff in some of the reviews that grabs me as a writer and reader that would make me want to check out the book but, yeah, a future post. I gotta dig deeper. For amusement sake or simply the sake of it all.

http://www.amazon.com/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1320955068&sr=8-1

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

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

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

Heavy Metal Horror & Happy 2012!

2011-12-30T12:00:00.000-08:00

Nothing is as it seems. This is a theme that runs through much of my fiction. If you think you've got a tab on exactly what is going on, well, let me shake that up for you, shaken, stirred, and poured out into a mold you may never have imagined.

I like to keep things...interesting. I like to look at things from different angles. One of my specialties. Not that it's always some mind-boggling revelation, oh no. But I am aware at all times of a) allowing the stories to develop organically, taking their own paths and b) again, looking at them, approaching them, from a different perspective. Seems after years of writing, this is a natural part of my process.

But it's always been like that, even before I had the skills, or at least solid inclination, to attack each story with this mindset in mind.

Honing one's writing, reading broadly, incorporating out-of-left-field nuances, yeah, well...that's just the way it works for me now. At least...at least I hope so.

Sometimes, really, a good story stands up no matter the leanings toward it being something 'original' or not, but I am always aware of this while writing as well.

So...

"Headbangin'." I wrote this story long ago, but it's a really good indicator or my willingness even back then to allow the layers full reign, the absurdities, the weird perspectives and all that jive.

If it seems simply as though the main character has reached his wit's end and insanity is his only option, think again.

If you think that voice in his head is simply a product of his imagination, oh, yes, do think again.

I mean...what if it's actually an alien race, something ancient and earth-bound, and all it really wants is a way out of his head, out of its limbo existence.

What if this is actually a prelude to invasion?

Oh, man! Well, all that and more play out in this bit o' Heavy Metal Horror that actually was in an anthology called--oh my!--Heavy Metal Horror. I updated the story a couple years back when I heard of this anthology, tweaked it and modernized it a bit, and let it (rock 'n') roll.

Here's a taste of our protagonist Kenny's realization that he's not alone. And, yes, yes, since I have brought it up before, I would tweak the semi-colons a bit here, but not messing with it right now. For a future collection, oh, yeah! Looking forward to that... ;-)

***

It slithered intoprominence, almost a presence unto itself, as Kenny drove home with Franktoasted unconscious in the passenger seat. With his window down, he bathed in the wind-cooled sweat, helping tosimmer most of the abuse of which he had subjected himself. But his head throbbed, oh yes, it pounded itsdiscomfort home, massaged and battered by clumsy talons, not the soothingfingers of icy, invigorating wind. Itwas a dull, monotonous assault, threatening internal evacuation from theconfined quarters of his skull. Tryingto abate the ache, calloused fingers rubbed hard above his eyes. Amidst this basic function, he felt it, orheard it: he wasn’t sure. A thought asmass, as substance--being--an inner illusion depicting solidity and formation. Regardless of veracity, it startled him tothe point of swerving, a loss of control that almost landed him against thecenter divider. He had to jerk thesteering wheel hard to avoid collision, jostling the still sleeping Frank firstagainst the door, before slumping him brusquely to the dash. Drool flowed from his slack mouth, but eventhe abrupt handling did not wake him.

The instantcrystallized, placed on a pedestal above rules and regulations, memories anddreams--the intangibles of human nature--that had molded him up to now: thismoment in time. He rubbed his headagain, hoping to rouse the genie. Adistinct influence responded, attaching itself to his thought processes, muchas a leech would a vein. Stung, thesudden infusion of alien provocation caused his body to chill; unlike thewind’s prying fingers it was a more brutal, intimidating condition: asplit-second trapped in the heart of the glacier, incapacitated, yetalive.

When it passed,the lines of communication were open.

It spoke, itwhispered, a voice much like his own, only laced with a confidence, anintuition, a perversion that he had never incorporated. It brandished fame in its prognosticating, afame that Kenny could not have perceived without its assistance. He listened with unwavering devotion,something his 21^st Century media-flush brain had never been able tomuster, as mutated by MySpace/Facebook/Twitter social network textspeakblipslang: the clipped language of the 21^st Century youth, sillinesswithout substance, multi-task info-overload that whittled one’s attention spaninto that of an ADD fly--short, skittish, and isn’t there something else heshould be doing? It enthralled him, theabsolutely outlandish motivations that drove the voice--the ideals, thestrategy; and it fascinated him because in the strange, twisted world he livedin, those motivations seemed wholly conceivable.

With his focusprimed, only time stood between Kenny and his rendezvous with destiny. He relished knowledge, basking in thepolluted waters of his new reality, the insane as fact, as progenitor tologic. How else could he explain hiswillingness to relinquish control and life itself for a skewed concept of fame?

He couldn’t. But it wasn’t in his hands any more. Another held the reins, one whose selfishmachinations were tempered as part of a new outlook. Its ancestors had conceived from initiationguidelines based in a singular objective: the quest for freedom. With mounting failures, the passage of timescarred and amplified their urgency, inhibiting their quest.

Until recently.

***

It all goes downhill with a pummeling 4/4 beat from there or, well, look...for the alien thingamabog in his head, it all starts to go very, very good. And all because the term Headbangin' is taken to heart. Literally!

BTW, when released, the underlines I used to indicate italics where still underlines instead of italics. I can't say if this issue was straightened out as I've not seen a latter version but, no matter, the story is a fun and mind-bending read anyway.

2012 is right around the corner as I type this. I wish you and yours the Best Year Ever!

And don't forget, if you want to start the year right, start it DARK, please pick up my collection, The Dark is Light Enough for Me. Available at Amazon (inc. the UK, Germany and France), B&N, and OmniLit. The print version is officially ready any day now, final tweaks are being made as I type this. Thank you to those who have read it and, hopefully, enjoyed the collection. And for those of you thinking about it, by all means, give it a shot. It's "not your average horror," as has been said.

Thanks again, and here's the cover art for Heavy Metal Horror, an ebook worth investigating.

Enjoy!

Hardcore Darkness!

2011-12-21T15:54:00.001-08:00

Firstly, hey...hope you had a fantastic...whatever you celebrate. A friend wrote, Merry Chrimakwanzanukah! or a variation on that, works for me. But now that you've got your kindles and nooks, well...time to fill em up with lovely darkness, eh?

Here's a couple of stellar reviews up in the last few days, thought I would lead you in that direction, post them here, pique your interest, your fingers twitch, you click on Amazon or B&N or OmniLit, the purchase is done...you settle in with your ereader...and the freak out begins! hehe...

So, for you entertainment, yes, they are entertaining, and deep, well thought out, and I am honored to have such responses, here's a couple reviews, the first one from Brian Fatah Steele, a writer of Much Dark Talent and Worthy of Your Time. Trust me, I've read some of his work, have one title on my computer awaiting perusal. He's rather wicked. The other is from Gerry Huntman, an editor and writer who's work I expect to check out as well. Either way, I send them much gratitude for their kind words.

Enjoy!

***

A Philosophical Horror Success

It is a rarity that a short story collection can speak to me witheach of its tales, rarer still that the voice be so articulate. While I candefinitely appreciate elements of "splatterpunk," too many modernhorror author don't even go that bloody route, instead remaining in a safe"horror lit" style. Smith goes elsewhere, a bleak universe that onegets glimpses of in works by Harlan Ellison, H.P. Lovecraft, and occasionallyClive Barker. The intellect powering these nightmares is a staggering,transcendental monster in itself.

Many of the tales within feature certain horror archetypes - absurdistcharacters, extreme visceral sensations, madness manifested, etc. However,behind the window-dressings of dark, speculative fiction we find the musings ofa philosopher. The concepts of guilt, ennui, ostracism, addiction and rage areexamined just as keenly by Smith and his horror as they would have been by thelikes of Sartre, Camus, Kafka, Nietzsche and Kant. The reader is forced tothink along with feel, a dark dialogue open straight into your psyche.

These tales are not simplistic morality plays, nor are they juvenile in scope.The title story alone will leave you teetering in existential terror, while"The Perceptive One" will leave you hopeless. Our self-image (andself-worth) is attacked in "I Want To Be A Pretty Little Girl," asnature's dark secrets are revealed in "Strange Trees." Smith evengives us his own unique spin on vampires in the satirical "I Want To TakeYou Higher" and zombies in the nihilistic "Not Breathing."

This is a collection of brilliantly conceived short stories, the deep patina ofdarkness only adding to the themes explored by Smith. It is easily a 5 Starbook, deserving of that rating, and deserving to be read by any fan ofintelligent horror.

;-)

Masterful Anthology

I am, apart from several other roles, a speculative fiction writer. And 'horror' is an equally important element of the super-category for me. I like to call my horror pieces 'dark fantasy' - as I like the subtle, and I don't necessarily want to go heavy on gore, nor do I like to dabble in standard motifs, like zombies and vampires. And yet I will dabble in the more extreme on occasion. The term 'dark fantasy' is not a clearly defined concept, but one that I'm more comfortable with than most. John Claude Smith's Dark is Light Enough For Me is an anthology of dark fantasy, interspersed with horror, but none of the stories consist of recurring popular motifs - internally or within the genre. Each story is original, and in most cases, very dark indeed - coal black.

Smith's anthology isn't for the sensitive or the faint-hearted. Many of the stories are edgy, working on concepts and thoughts that all us adults are familiar with, but rarely talk about. Smith isn't being quirky, or finding satisfaction in the gory, sexually perverse or the profane. No, he is writing this stuff because it unbalances the reader. Disturbs. Sometimes frightens - the essence of what quality horror/dark fantasy is all about. And he does it admirably, especially for a debut title.

You will find stories of high craftsmanship, but not all of his pieces are equal. I have found a few that could have been tighter, better polished, but never lacking in originality and perceptiveness. There are places in some stories that could have been better edited and proofed as well - but these are few and far between, and do not materially affect the overall quality of the piece. (I'm also an editor, and stuff like that rarely avoids my notice).

The remainder of this review is a blow-by-blow review of Smith's stories in the anthology.

** Black Wings

A very good story of guilt - and with a most interesting set of occurrences that lie at the root of the protagonist's guilt, as well as the way it manifested at the end of the piece.

The protagonist is, right from the beginning, a ruined man, and he is visited by crows, and in particular a big one. Smith skillfully reveals their meaning, as well as the protagonist's past. The flashback is finally revealed and it was surprising, and horrific.

The ending is appropriate and quite surreal.

** The Dark Is Light Enough For Me

This is a particularly good short story. We have the protagonist, James, with a disturbing life history (a pattern in many of Smith's stories), being drawn into a writer's group, discovering not only that the entire group have written the same complex work, but that there is a strange story associated with why he uniquely joined the group. This short is extremely well written - with a highly mature, insightful narrative, and without resorting to the more blatant tropes of horror, is in fact very horrifying. A dark piece worthy of wide readership.

** I Wish I Was A Pretty Little Girl

A powerful piece. It's hard to be original as a writer, writing from the POV of a serial killer. Smith succeeded. Again, the protagonist had a horrendous, nightmarish life leading to the current events. An explanation as to why this particular person became a monster - and convincingly. This story set me in uneasiness from the first few sentences. A child being led somewhere by a clearly disturbed adult - one of the hardest things to read about if Smith chose to follow the path of describing murder in gory detail. And yet he didn't. This story isn't about love of violence, rape, sex, or some bizarre blood letting. This is about the man who wants to be something else. The uneasiness generated from the start was a masterful stroke, allowing the reader to be unbalanced from the beginning, and then throughout the story. The ending was apt and horrifying, and almost makes one feel sorry for the killer.

** Gladiatrix

Again, a powerful piece, delving deep into the psyche of an exploited woman, and how she was turned into, a gladiatrix of sorts. The descriptions and language are superb, but I do have a slight reservation - it almost seems that the long (and quality) descriptions of the woman and her background in the first half of the story, seem too disjointed from the narrative revelations later. They seem more disconnected than what I would have appreciated.

Nevertheless, well worth the read.

** I Want To Take You Higher

A very good pastiche of drug and sex underlife, mixed with obscene, edgy satanic-like religion. With all the hard core imagery and descriptions, Smith was able to find moments for flippancy and humor. This is a well constructed story, sending up many elements of our society. A nice twist is constructed at the end.

** Not Breathing

A very powerful story about the degredation of a man's soul, woven into a most interesting plot. The use of second person is very efective here. Don't want to reveal much, but this is one of my favorites.

** Make Pretty

This is different from the past stories thus far, because it is more like a traditional horror piece - and yet masterfully crafted. Without giving too much away, the story is about vanity, and how it can bite you back if you choose to dabble in the spurious. Smith proves he is as much a traditional horror writer, as an innovator.

** Strange Trees

Another piece that has a traditional structure, but with unique undercurrents. The concept that malevolent trees awaken by the onset of menstruation with one of the protagonists, is effective. I also found the language and the POV more tradional than any other of Smith's stories in the anthology, almost (in a modern sense) like H.P. Lovecraft - clinical language - longer sentences, with
evocative descriptions.

** The Perceptive One

I like the premise of the story - the egotistical, shallow sociopath, teams up with an almost seer-like young girl, and their lives are inextricably crossed with an old tramp who has something dark, powerful, to impart. The egotist, Travis, becomes ruined, when in fact he was already broken, and the story ends with promise of a continuation of the cycle. Destiny is a strong theme in the story.

This is good - but, I think Smith works too hard at it, and there are scenes that seem to me too filled with repetitive descriptive sentences, and probably are 3 to 4 times longer than they should be. The intention, perhaps planning, is good, but the execution is slightly flawed. I feel this is a less mature work of Smith's, and I saw evidence of lack of polish here and there (not to mention editing/proofing). This is, despite some good points, one of Smith's weaker pieces.

** Plastic

A very good story that is superficially a classic scifi trope, but excellently meshes with the hunger of a man who hasn't attained his soul's desire. While the ending is in purest form something that a reader can guess at, the details aren't. This was also one of my favorites.

** The Sunglasses Girl

Another powerful, edgy, and raw piece, juxtaposing the seedier aspects of a man's depravity, with the stuff that matters more - the ability to make decisions on a higher plane. And in failing, suffers the consequences of what emerges from the lower plane (so to speak). This is another example of Smith's prime motif throughout the anthology.

** Things That Crawl in Hollywood

The final story is a wonderful comedic horror piece, sending up Hollywood, the 'plastic celebrity' phenomenon, and the shlock of zombie flix. A funny, and yet thoughtful piece - fast paced. Amazingly clever.

All in all I give Smith's work 4 starts - I would give 4 and a half, but most systems don't cope with fractions. 5 is on or near perfection, and this anthology isn't quite there - but I bow and acclaim a wonderful work nevertheless, and stand in awe at this debut piece. As a writer, I have learned much from Smith, in terms of the power of descriptive narrative.

***

Come now, doesn't that make you want to check out my collection, The Dark is Light Enough for Me? I could say so much about what they've pointed out, but don't you think you should delve into my dark world yourself, gather your own insights, write your own reviews? Please and Thank you!
;-)
Here's a list of avenues for purchasing The Dark is Light Enough for Me.

Amazon.com:

http://www.amazon.com/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1320955068&sr=8-1

Amazon.co.uk

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1320958608&sr=8-1

Barnes & Noble:

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1107159029?ean=2940013567245&itm=1&usri=the%252bdark%252bis%252blight%252benough%252bfor%252bme

OmniLit:

http://www.omnilit.com/product-thedarkislightenoughforme-638242-238.html

Amazon Germany:

http://www.amazon.de/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1321156971&sr=8-1

Amazon France:

http://www.amazon.fr/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1321231116&sr=8-1

So, please explore the rest of the reviews on Amazon, as well as Goodreads, and join me in the Dark...

Have a Spectacular day and, yes, yes, the print version, a couple days, that's what I have been told.

;-)

Here's one of Brian Fatah Steele's releases, but be sure to check the others out, too. I'm posting this one because I wrote a review for it, you can check it out, buy it, buy more of his work, and make him a happy guy, 'kay?
;-)

http://www.amazon.com/Further-Than-Fate-post-mythic-ebook/dp/B0042FZWL6/ref=sr_1_9?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1324949915&sr=1-9

"Merry Christmas, Bukowski" + More Darkness!

2011-12-21T12:23:00.000-08:00

Bukowski.

Yeah, that guy.

When I first read Charles Bukowski, I must not have been in the proper mindset to really appreciate where he was coming from. I liked it but...it wasn't a big deal. Yet, I knew people who raved over his work, who felt compelled to have lunches at hotel pools, slugging back cheap beer reading his poems. I'm not kidding! I remember a conversation with a record exec for a metal label while he was passing the time doing just this. Now, though, I totally dig his poetry, though I've yet to read his fiction--I will rectify this at some point. But with the poetry, and really getting it, oh yes, getting it to the core, I love his words, perspectives, observations. Raw to the nerve and dipped in battery acid truths. Unflinching, the way I like to approach my fiction writing...and my poetry as well.

Yes, I write poetry, too. I've mentioned it before, but it's been awhile.

So, last year about this time, actually, it was 12-24 as I check my notes, I was sitting in a cafe and I wrote a poem inspired by Hank entitled, rather appropriately, "Merry Christmas, Bukowski." Though I don't write like him, it's perhaps got that vibe, that casual, world-messed-up-but-getting by kind of vibe. That grinding-through-to-the-other-side kinda vibe. That pass-me-another-shot-and-wait-just-leave-the-bottle kind of...er...vibe.

Well, you be the judge. Here's that poem.

***

MerryChristmas, Bukowski

ByJohn Claude Smith

Idon’t find Christmas music cheerful

as I sit in the empty cafe

“less talk, more music”

I wish the DJ and the musicwould be

stricken with silence

my chai black tea grown cold

shake the snow globe,

pour the snow in the glass mug

The twelve days of Christmasup to nine

my desire to shoot Santa

the reindeer

and the composer of thisfaux masterpiece

The manager speaks in hernative tongue

(she said once her name was unpronounceable

though she goes by Tracy)

“Tracy,” I say, raising myeyes from

the aching sprawl of words

“Could we lose the music?”

“Are you a scrooge, Mr. John?”she asks

pasting a too quick smile

on her otherwise pleasantface

I pause to consider mylimited options as response

and put on my “well, you’ve nailed me

with your spiffy observation, dear,” smile

and turn back to thesecrowded pages

I pull out my flask and add alittle Christmas cheer

my own lubricated Carol

to warm things up

the chai black tea grown cold

thinking

if she cut out the horrendously cheerful music

perhaps she’d get some customers

Ho ho fuckin’ ho

***

HA! Well, hope that amuses you. Bukowski-esque, slightly; perhaps. I think I've figured out what I like about his writing that I can relate to: we don't back away from harsh truths, from those deep, dark places most people want to avoid. No, we like to dig into those places, peel off the scab. Mess with the wound or...egad, what the heck am I writing?

We like to have our words without inhibitions. That's the same was we should all approach our lives too: living without inhibitions.

Okay, enough of my philosiphizing.

And, as a reminder that there's a book I'm trying to sell, here's a teaser, a couple snippets from the two most recent reviews for my collection, The Dark is Light Enough for Me.

Transported Beyond the Genre

“These stories, horrific and disturbing as they are, transport thereader far beyond the horror genre. Every story here has such depth andfeeling, each could easily serve as the subject of an entire novel. The proseis fraught with emotion, the intensity of the writing is enough in itself toleave you breathless. Whether you are into the horror genre or not, you will bemesmerized by these little masterpieces.”

and

"Smith's anthology isn't for the sensitive or thefaint-hearted. Many of the stories are edgy, working on concepts and thoughtsthat all us adults are familiar with, but rarely talk about. Smith isn't beingquirky, or finding satisfaction in the gory, sexually perverse or the profane.No, he is writing this stuff because it unbalances the reader. Disturbs.Sometimes frightens - the essence of what quality horror/dark fantasy is allabout. And he does it admirably, especially for a debut title."

Oh, my! I am humbled and honored to have touched both of those readers in such a way. And quite appreciative of their kind words and observations. The second snippet is from a long, intense and thought-provoking review that will probably get the full blog treatment, though you can check them both out and more on the amazon link below. Actually, here's the whole rollcall of avenues one can purchase the book.

Amazon.com:

http://www.amazon.com/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1320955068&sr=8-1

Amazon.co.uk

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1320958608&sr=8-1

Barnes & Noble:

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1107159029?ean=2940013567245&itm=1&usri=the%252bdark%252bis%252blight%252benough%252bfor%252bme

OmniLit:

http://www.omnilit.com/product-thedarkislightenoughforme-638242-238.html

Amazon Germany:

http://www.amazon.de/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1321156971&sr=8-1

Amazon France:

http://www.amazon.fr/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1321231116&sr=8-1

...and here's the grizzled old geezer in his environment, well, guzzling the liquid ambience to assist him in attaining his proper environment.

Enjoy!

Steinbeck, via Rush, Gone Sideways: "My True Name."

2011-12-18T20:24:00.000-08:00

Story ideas come up in the strangest ways. Here's an amusing example. In an email correspondence with a good friend, I had made a reference to Alex Lifeson, guitarist for the excellent prog-metal-something-more-than-that-band, Rush. In his response, he made a joke I missed, mentioning somebody named, "Bill DeathDaughter." When questioning him, he mentioned Lifeson and yeah, yeah, it all made sense in our own quirky conversation and...

The name stuck with me.

Within a day or two, I had written the core of an insidious piece of work entitled, "My True Name," starring a lethal force named, TriggerBoy, and his hapless cohort, the one with the real power, Bill DeathDaughter.

I think of this one as my nod to Steinbeck's "Of Mice And Men," though it honestly has nothing to do with that tale besides, perhaps, a wishful ambience. Sure, there are two intrinsically entwined characters, as well, but my guys are wandering amidst the stark fields of the midwest, and their bond is of a different, perhaps supernatural nature. And here it all goes really, really sideways and deep into the pit of horror. Because it is a pure horror piece, lifted into the realm of the strange by a finale of apocalyptic aspirations.

And it's icky. A freaky kind of icky.

Yet there's something about it, whenever I read it, perhaps their world, that makes me think Steinbeck. Odd.

Here's the opening sequence, where we meet TriggerBoy and Bill DeathDaughter and experience the grim curse that is Bill's existence...

***

TriggerBoy sniffed the air and circled around me, bouncing to and fro like a happy puppy. “It’s time. It’s gettin’ close.”

I cringed, but with the statement, I felt it rise in me.

In my head.

The sun hung as a ripe peach, dead center of the sky. I rubbed the back of my burnt neck and continued toward the dilapidated diner, which seemed as beat down by the heat as I felt. The two cars parked in front of the diner had license plates from other states.

This was not a destination, just a break from driving, the heat, or to fill one’s belly with grease and whatever came with said grease.

I was sure there was a victim to be had.

We approached a green Honda as a couple opened their doors to exit. The mother went to open the back door, but hesitated as we neared.

“Can I help you?”said the father.

“What is…?”

A battle raged within me, between my conscience--wanting it to stop--and the uncontrollable need. My conscience always lost the battle…as if it really had a chance.

Something squirmed in my skull, something of hideous intent, a loathsome prescience: the piranhas who lived there were chewing through my brain.

I gathered my composure. It had to be played out.

“What is your name, sir?” I asked, my face twisting from him.

“Excuse me?”

The inherent goodness of human nature is a weakness. The father looked toward his wife then approached me. He stuck out his hand to shake mine. “My name is Sam. Sam Wenders. How can I help you?”

“Tell him. You gots to tell him what your name is. Tell him!” TriggerBoy was jittery with anticipation.

I stared past the father, to the car, and the little red-haired girl playing with a headless doll, seeming none the worse for the absence. Her mother stood pensively next to the open door.

I whispered to myself, “No,” but the piranhas only grew more agitated at my vacillation. As I reached for his hand--synapses sparking, setting fire to the nerves at the tips of my fingers--I said, “My name is Bill. Bill DeathDaughter.” I gripped his hand tighter and asked, “What is your true name, sir?”

His eyes went blank, and then the soiled epiphany of what was about to happen hit him hard, and he said, through clenched teeth, “My name is Sam. S-Sam DeadGirlsFather…” and then, struggling past his lips, the plea: “Please…no…”

Tears made his eyes glossy but did not wash away his dread; his desperation.

But I only saw this peripherally, as I stared at his daughter, this beautiful little girl…and her skin started to bubble, she started to melt as an ice cream cone would on hot pavement. The clipped scream from her lips was matched by her mother’s scream, her mother’s scream continuing long after the few seconds it took to turn their daughter into a puddle of steaming viscera; a stain on the backseat, never to be removed; a stain on their minds, never to be forgotten.

***

Funny thing, well, two funny things. 1) I can see tweaking this one, cleaning it up a bit--yes, toning down the semi-colons, Sharene--because 2) I can see this being the opening salvo to a second collection.

It originally appeared in the final anthology released by the online horror writers' group, The Parasitorium. The book was called, Parasitic Thoughts, hence, what's going on in Bill DeathDaughter's head.

Speaking of collections, have you bought, The Dark is Light Enough for Me, yet? Come now, you know you want to. Not convinced, there's another fantastic 5-star review on the Amazon page, just check it out. There's 24 'likes' too.

http://www.amazon.com/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1320955068&sr=8-1

Before I get outta here, thought I'd let you know there will be more teasers again from the collection, we'll get deeper into some of the stories, I think. I'll also be heading out to the AlternaWorld for more adventures dealing with the collection. That and there's some poetry coming up, including my Christmas poem with a Bukowski vibe or, ah, you'll see.

Here's the cover art for the The Parasitorium: Parasitic Thoughts anthology.
Enjoy!

Holiday Horror...With A Side Of Humor.

2011-12-15T10:41:00.000-08:00

Yeah, 'tis the season and all that ta-do. Oh, I just thought, I wonder if I can find a piece of art with a bloody Christmas tree, er...okay, getting ahead of myself.

Anywya, or anyway, if you prefer, here for your amusement or simply to make you wonder even more about the speculative/horror/weird/absurd fiction writer's mind, is a delightfully devious lil' flash fiction tale for the season, "The Christmas Tree." It appeared online in an ezine called, Camp Horror, in 2004. Now, I usually don't get into holiday horror and goofy stuff of this nature. Sure, a more serious nature of goofy, but this tale, well...

I actually wrote the foundation for this one, I'm thinking, many years before it got published. One of those one-joke short and sharp tales, for a giggle. A spurt of nuttiness. I say I think it was written a few years before publication because I know exactly the person the female character was based on, a friend I knew at least 12 years before, so...yeah. Old words.

You see, writer's go through transitions, growth. When I was first writing seriously, I thought, "horror." I liked to get icky. But over time, we discover many different ways to draw out the icky, or the dread, or whatever is necessary. We grow. We learn. Even now, my focus tilts between two rather diametrically opposed genres: magic realism...and weird fiction. I've always been interested in weird fiction but only dabbled; I see digging in much deeper now, at least with the shorter fiction. And magic realism, man, that's quite close to my heart. I cannot explain it. Actually, I could see it relating to Surrealistic art, which is my favorite art, so there's a partial explanation. But these two elements have risen to the top and are more indicative of the writer I am now. Oh, and laced with deep psychological elements and...er...

Excuse me, where was I? Sorry about that...

Yeah, so now, here, this blog, it's just me saying this story, it's a goof, enjoy it for a giggle, but if you want to see where I am as a writer now, be sure to check out my collection, The Dark Is Light Enough For Me.

Enjoy!

***

The Christmas Tree

Want want want…

She sat, silently engrossed in the filing of the hook attached to anornament, a silver ball. Filing it to afine, piercing point.

He stood, arms extended from his side at just enough of a trajectory asto give the impression of a triangle, a pyramid or, perhaps, a Christmas tree.

She said she wanted a Christmas tree. He was broke. She said she reallywanted a Christmas tree. So, what’s a poor boy to do, butimprovise?!

She handed him the silver ball.

“I suppose you expect me to decorate the whole darned thing, too?”

He’d already hung nineteen of the silver balls on the “tree.” It was really beginning to hurt. His pained, crumpled paper bag expression lether know this.

“So, what’s your point?” As ifshe was saying: What’s a little pain between lovers?

Ah, but pain was the point. Whenshe got like this--calloused, insensitive--he wondered why he put up with her. The things he did for love…

“It friggin’ hurts!”

“You told me you’d get me a Christmas tree, no matter what—”

“But…but…”

“I don’t need excuses. I justwant my Christmas tree.”

“Okay, fer crissakes.” He sighed,exasperated. He took the silver ball bythe finely-honed hook, silver balls hanging from his arm, swaying to hismovement; he, the Christmas tree. Shemotioned to him. He acquiesced, piercinghis left nipple with the hook, the silver ball dangling gently against hisflesh. He mouthed, “Ouch.” He assumed the position, balls dangling fromthe straining skin of his arms, legs and torso. One even pierced the tip of his unhappy penis.

She admired him, her flesh made Christmas tree, blood trickling likecrimson tinfoil streamers.

Thank God that was the last ball, he thought, looking to her forconfirmation. She only grinnedmischievously. “Not quite.” She pulled out a huge silver star, the topperfor her Christmas tree. A four-inch nailprotruded from between two of the star’s points.

He harrumphed. “Well, you’regoing to have to put that one on yourself.
“I know,” she said, jamming it intothe top of his skull.

That really shot fire into his brain, soft gray matter raging in protestto the nail’s intrusion, screaming for only him to hear. He hoped that was all, prayed that wasall. This was getting ridiculous.

“Is that…it?” The words stumbledfrom his lips. Blood warmed his ears.

“No. There’s one more thing.”

The thought flashed: What else could she possibly…? A stream of drool flowed from the rightcorner of his mouth, all normal function deemed impotent by the hidden tumultin his skull. She understood his awkwardsilence, answering his unasked question.

“What did you get me?”

Want want want…

***

Next time, we get more current. What will it be? Not sure, so strap in and relax. We've only just begun. Have a lovely day/eve/morning/afternoon/midnight snack, er...yeah...

;-)

No bloody Christmas tree, but a bloody silver ball, perhaps even more appropriate.

Cthulhu, Hunter S. Thompson, "The Shadow Over Las Vegas."

2011-12-11T17:58:00.001-08:00

How about another fiction teaser, then perhaps more teasers for the collection, too?! Sounds good to me. As in, it's Sunday night as I type this, kind of worn out, but want to write up a new blog post, so this is what I'm rolling with today. Inviting a couple of good friends, Cthulhu and Hunter S. Thompson, along for the ride.

What? What the heck are you talking about, John Claude?

A few years ago I received Terry Gilliam's movie of Thompson's "Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas" as a Christmas gift. It was a strange time in my life, somehow in between everything, it seemed. So for a solid month, winding through to the end of January, I watched that movie every day.

Really.

Something triggered in my wee brain, a thought of a Cthulhu story based in Thompson's world, a mash-up of truly bizarre possibilities. I went into my books, looking for the Thompson book, of course, and could not find it. I wanted to go to the source material, get to Thompson's Gonzoid Heart. I was quite surprised to find how well the movie actually uncorporated much of his twisted, drug-fueled tale. Some reviewers have noted how the story initially feels a lot more like the movie than the book (before it completely becomes its own strange beast), but the book is all there, on screen, so I simply followed that starting point...and went off the rails.

Our event had nothing to do with motorcylces, oh no. We--my attorney and yours truly; my attorney being a little green around the gills...--were there to report on, as I wrote, the "21^stCentury Fox/NASA sponsored Marilyn Monroe Weekend of Memories commemoration ofthe fiftieth year of her death, a perverse celebration littered with everyconceivable Marilyn Monroe imitator this side of Jupiter, culminating in acontest to pick the very best Marilyn Monroe to carry on with a movie contractand manufactured career, and to promote whatever NASA needed them topromote. Whores for the universe, prostitutesin league with Republicans, Satanists, and whatever other demented legionswould flock to this horrid place this weekend."

Yes, and that's only the beginning. Well, the middle actually, but...er...

The writer's brain is a strange place, indeed. My brain is a wicked playground, as I like to say. Frolicking with the bizarre ideas is a regular pastime...

Anyway, you can check out the story in the first volume of the Cthulhu Unbound anthology series from Permuted Press. A great selection of mixed genre takes on Cthulhu and his cohorts.

Here's a rambling sample as my attorney and I get situated at the main event. We've both ingested the appropriate drugs for our showdown, and to enlighten our experience. My attorney, in cahoots with Cthulhu, getting the worst of it as...well, you'll see...

***

We were linked asone, my mind and his, mine in the driver’s seat. His, trembling in the backseat, wishing itwere in the trunk.

In our eyes theceiling opened up, and a universe of stars seemed to align themselves in ways Icould never imagine.

“The stars areright, the stars are right,” screamed my attorney.

“Not quite,” Isaid, smiling as satellites within the star systems neared us.

“What? What is that?” My attorney scooted under thetable. Around us, people grumbled at ourantics, not understanding the magnitude of what was unfolding within ourvision.

The True Great OldOnes ambled into view. My attorney letout a sound drenched in such fear as to demote all previous definitions of theword to obsolescence.

It stumbled from the right side of the sky,the drunken master of dulcet blandness: Dean Martin. From the left, the hideous cyclopean essenceof the ebony one: Sammy Davis Jr.

My attorneywhimpered with such abandon as to lose all hold on his masquerade, dissolvinginto a diseased, writhing mound of chum, a squiggly conglomeration of fishheads and tentacles and fins, flaking scales, aged green sea-algae, andserpentine madness.

From dead center,the ultimate in crooning egotism, the Lord of Las Vegas, the Grand Meatball…thedread that is--

“Sinatra!” criedmy attorney, falling under His spell. “Sinatra!”

As my attorneythrashed about, whiplash tentacles decapitating enough Marilyns to make thismore a Jane Mansfield memorial the audience scattered, miffed.

All that was leftwas to let it play out. As the concertwent on--the celestial serenade--my attorney began to melt, captivated, and yetthe spell they cast was the one thing that could deter his quest for world domination.

The stenchattained a pungent magnitude that assaulted my nostrils. The percolating eddies of his essencereverted back to their primal form, the first boiling seeds of life that swamin the seas. I doffed my hat inremembrance.

***
And, yes, there's still much more weird nonsense to be revealed! A fun ride, a fun write, pure madness!

Next, well, probably the print version of the collection news, but there's also iong to be some new teasers, perhaps, for the collection, the one you should have already bought, but if you haven't well, what's keepin' ya? Yeah, The Dark is Light Enough for Me, twelve stories of twisted desire, madness, horror, icky stuff, and dark dark dark. Or there's the Christmas, um...story. And even the Bukowski Christmas poem. So, yes, a lot to look forward to. Are you ready? Really? You think so, eh?
;-)

Here's the Lovely cover art from Cthulhu Unbound, Volume 1. Check it out, it's a great and wild ride. What? Oh, yes, see, this was the largest, cleanest picture of the cover that I could find, believe it or not. With the Amazon.com Look Inside deal on it. Yes, I thought that strange, too.

Fiction Teaser: "The Anatomy of Addiction."

2011-12-08T17:39:00.001-08:00

When putting together my collection, The Dark is Light Enough for Me (which is thisclose, I swear, it really is, to being out in print), the selection of stories was an odd process. See, I've had a fair amount of stories published, yet in the collection, only four of the published stories are represented. Why? Well, I believe it's me always looking forward, believing the more current work is more indicative of where I am now as a writer.

But that doesn't mean there hasn't been some good work before, oh no. It's more what we--the publisher and yours truly--decided worked well together for a variety of tones, characters, well something like that. Hey, my original TOC was quite different from what we ended up with, but I really love the way the stories work together and flow, man, flow...

I look forward to a second collection at some point which will address more of the published work that didn't make it into my debut collection. I've already mapped it out. It's a gnarly, lethal bastard but, no, not for now. I'm working the new one, Baby!

Anyway, one of the stories that didn't make it into The Dark...is a grim drug ride entitled, "The Last Supper (The Anatomy of Addiction)" which I am about positive I would publish as simply, "The Anatomy of Addiction." It addresses one of my favorite subjects: addiction, drugs, the whole shebang. As you should know if you've picked up the collection, two of the stories deal directly with drugs. But this one also deals with a familiar Horror trope: Zombies.

Yeah, really.

I'm not big on zombies or any of the other well-trod avenues along the Horror landscape, but for some reason they do crop up on occasion. Now, that said, it's not as if they are the prime focus in any of the zombie-related fiction I've written; well, not in most. "Anatomy..." deals with, as noted, addiction. Being a fan of William S. Burroughs, Hubert Selby Jr., and Jerry Stahl, amongst others, as well as a fan of hallucinogenic fiction in general, I dabble via strange experiences and, um...talking to the pros.

Huh?

Yeah, like with this story. My best friend, Fred, has dealt with drugs over the years, though is mostly clean nowadays, besides the occasional relapse. At the time I was writing this story, I remember calling him and saying, "I need info on shooting up." He said it would be better if he just showed me.

No, I'm not Kidding.

So, he showed up at the house I was renting with my ex-wife, or was she my girlfriend then? Ah, no matter, she was out. We sat in the dimly lit dining room as he set up. And he did it, a lot like what's written in this story, talking through it, what this or that is called. And I soaked it up, watched the transformation. It was a freaky, discomfitting experience, yet it made the story work. I remember Brian Keene's reaction when I sent it to Horrorfind online, he called it a "seriously messed up" tale.

It's now out in Best New Zombie Tales Volume 3, available via Amazon.com. You should check it out but, ahhhh, first, how about a taste here? Yes, I am going to go for it. Here's the scene in question, memories as dreams for Razor, our lead character, trapped within this zombie world.

This is what came out after I watched Fred shoot up.

Enjoy...?!

***

"There are no dreams, onlymemories:

Razor bends the spoon, slightly, setting it on the table. It does not wobble. He then rips the end off of a Q-tip, settingthe tiny cotton ball next to the spoon. He nervously twists the remains into a question mark. His hands are moist, his heart beginning torace. Anticipation is such a sweetaddition to the rush. He taps the dopefrom its plastic baggy onto the spoon, the specifics of said dope unnecessary,the gist here deals as much with the process as it does with the high;nonetheless, the dope is crank, cocaine’s dirty white trash cousin. His anxious fingers are now concrete inprecision. He squeezes water from thesyringe onto the dope. Flipping it over,Razor uses the plunger end to stir the mixture; it dissolves almost instantly,leaving an oily film over the top. Good. He closes his eyes; hisnostrils flare: a hint of ether. Definitely some good shit. Bloodsings in his ears. His brain is abeehive--oh, yes, very good shit. Histhoughts are focused, streamlined; he is the conductor. He drops the cotton ball into the mixture. It soaks up the liquid like the sponge it ismeant to emulate, like the putty of a child’s mind. Always wanting more, whether it is knowledge,attention, or satisfaction.

For Razor, it has always been satisfaction. Circumstances have only magnified thisdesire, altered the means by which his satisfaction was achieved. Now, satisfaction meant escape, running away,hopping on the metaphysically mutated freight train raging through hisbody. He vaguely remembered some ancientclassic rock performer’s nasal bleat and cackle: All Aboard!

Razor uses the needle end to roll the cotton ball around, making sure toget everything. He puts the flat end ofthe needle on the cotton ball, drawing the plunger back. He raises the syringe to eye level, admiringthe yellowish color. At this angle, hepulls down again on the plunger, taps the syringe with his forefinger, andwatches the bubbles rise. Sweat tricklesdown the sides of his face. Razor firmlypresses the plunger back up. He clenchesand unclenches his fist, tightens the belt around his upper arm. The veins protrude like mountains on a reliefmap. The needle pierces flesh. Razor gets the register; he is perfect asalways: blood flows into the syringe. Heinhales and exhales, emitting an audible sigh of pleasure. Now: Razor presses the plunger, slowly (teetering[patient])—Hold it (this is better than), hold it (any heaventhey--who are they?), hold it (could promise), pulling back on theplunger (in the afterlife: 1. death 2. hunger...), jacking off (that’swhat Metal Fred called it, milking the high, lingering before surrender: teetering…),so good, so good…pressing in again, fully, the freight train in overdrive (AllAboard! Hahahahaha...)--Pounding on the door--shit, the cops--yankingthe needle from his arm--"

***

Okay, we'll stop there, it's alllllll about to fall apart. Again, it's available in the aforementioned anthology. Please check it out!

Next time? Ahhhhh, I see the Print Version of The Dark is thisclose, really, it is, to being published. Or perhaps we'll deal with "Broken Teacup"? That one is pure messed up bliss! Hmmm...well, stick with me and find out. ;-)

Here's the cover art for the anthology. Check out that stellar list of contributors including Paul Kane, Tim Lebbon, Joe McKinney, Nancy Kilpatrick...I am in GREAT company!

Charles Bukowski's Review for The Dark...

2011-12-03T21:21:00.001-08:00

Tired now. The darkness comes on strong and fast here in the AlternaWorld. I feel like one of Edward Hopper's Nighthawks in need of a diner. Neon shatters the sky in pulsing shades of blue and red letters, random abstractions tossed up like arrows into bloated clouds ready to burst: Live Nude Ghouls, Garden of Ether, Topless Dreamers, Bottomless Pits, Used Books and Toothbrushes, Eat at Joes. There's always an Eat at Joes no matter where you go.

I wander toward Joes and pass by a leopard-skin painted newspaper dispenser and a blurb catches my eye: Charles Bukowski reviews John Claude Smith's The Dark is Light Enough for Me. It's above the headline, a Look Inside feature that snags me like a barbed hook in the back of my brain. I insert the appropriate coins, the mouth opens wide, and I start to reach in to get the last copy, pull it from view and leave the emptiness to its own designs.

And the dispenser growls.

I'm swift to yank the paper from the wire slot and let the mouth slam shut. The dispenser is now empty, yet I can see swirling dust formulating tomorrow's headlines, awaiting the paper upon which they will be printed.

Odd. But should I expect anything less than oddness here?

I open to section C, page 39--yes, it's a large newspaper--and there it is.

***

Charles Bukowski Strolls Through Smith's Darkness.

dorothy came home with a book. she's always bringing home books. the cover on this one intrigued me, crazy looking women with eyes in her palms with a room below her, this stark, desolate room. the kind of room I know well. i open it, flipping the pages until a title grabs me. "I Want to Take You Higher." i read it and smile at the addictions worn like gauze over always sticky wounds. dorothy brings me a beer. she's learned well. she may not be here next week, but she's learned well for now. i flip the pages to another story. "The Sunglasses Girl." i like her. i don't care if she's not what she seems. i like her. dorothy sits on my lap. "hey, what's got you hot, baby?" i can't hide my enjoyment. i don't answer her. she pouts. i move on to the title story. dear god, this one makes me want to take dorothy right there on the kitchen table. It also makes me want to take a hot shower, a brain wash. nasty piece of work. dark, dark words. i like this smith. no fear. "hey," dorothy says. "aint' ya gonna pay attention to me? especially if you're waving around that loaded gun?" she squirms on my lap, chewing gum popping in her overly lipsticked mouth. red. as I like her. "one more," i say. she pouts again. a story called, "Make Pretty." i've known people like all of these characters, hollywood folks. back on earth, in that other dimension. this one's insidious. this story, not this dimension. this dimension is all I've got now. and dorothy. "done?" dorothy asks. i look up at her, want to read more, but she's got something i need. i'll finish the book tomorrow. "yeah, done," i say. she says, "i love you, baby," and hands me another beer. she doesn't mind my smoking. doesn't mind my holy socks or grizzled appearance. she's my gutter princess, stockings bunched at her knees. tonight we'll know paradise or get drunk and it won't matter. tomorrow? well...that's another day. but this book. yeah, I like it. it's got an edge. got some harsh truths, even in the speculative landscapes smith explores. i recommend you pick up a copy and read it with a woman squirming on your lap as well.

***

So, I could go on and on, quite pleased with Bukowski's er...review, yeah...but I'll just leave you with ordering info and a smile and...I wonder who or what we'll run into next time?

Have a Splendid Day/Eve/Night/Afternoon!

Amazon.com:

http://www.amazon.com/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1320955068&sr=8-1

Amazon.co.uk

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1320958608&sr=8-1

Barnes & Noble:

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1107159029?ean=2940013567245&itm=1&usri=the%252bdark%252bis%252blight%252benough%252bfor%252bme

OmniLit:

http://www.omnilit.com/product-thedarkislightenoughforme-638242-238.html

Amazon Germany:

http://www.amazon.de/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1321156971&sr=8-1

Amazon France:

http://www.amazon.fr/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1321231116&sr=8-1

And, of course, I couldn't end this post without a photo of the one and only Charles Bukowski. I believe this photo may actually have been taken just after he set down my book, with Dorothy on his lap, and mischief on their minds.

Wilderness Edits and The Dark...Print News!

2011-11-29T22:49:00.001-08:00

I haven't meant to be negligent and leave you hanging, waiting for whatever's next here. Another excursion to the AlternaWorld, or simply some rambling. But, you see, as a writer, there are times we actually have to, how do I put this? Yeah, Write! As in, my second novel, The Wilderness Within--great title, perhaps I'll use it elsewhere [he said, eyes rolling upward in their sockets, whistling like the imp he occasionally is] [imp? What the...?]--needed some...tweaking. Because, well, there's this thing that my agent/editor mentioned to me that made her crazy. Oh, don't get me wrong, she Loves the writing, the novels and stories, but...but...

I kinda like my semi-colons.

So, toned down some of those, as well as dashes and some full-grown colons, too. And in the process, I realized something seemed...funky.

There was stuff I know, I just know, I edited out a while ago. And it was back! How could that be? Had the writing gremlins decided it was better with the edited material reinserted?

I was severely miffed. Brow furrowed deep and long. I stopped my edits and contacted my editor/agent and said, "Baby, could you please send me the latest version of the novel you have," after which she replied, "Who is this? What are you talking about, you strange, strange man?" Checking the email, I had somehow picked the AlternaWorld version of my agent/editor which, no, she's not the same over there, instead she's a B-movie Scream Queen and stellar letter turner on their version of Wheel of Fortune so, then, well, resending to my editor/agent, she sent me my copy and, damnit, it was the same!

Had I somehow done all this work before and not saved it? Was I just imagining having done it? Can I have an H, dear? Followed by an O.L.Y. S.H. I don't even know where I'm going with this so, anyway, yes, that explains the busywork and my not being around. That and the long Thanksgiving four-day weekend, which really doesn't get in my way, but one finds oneself distracted at the very least.

It's Tuesday night as I type this. I'll post it Wednesday when I finish it and get some art for the post.

Ah, but one more thing.

The agent/editor informed me of specs about other cool stuff. Yes, for those of you who have been asking, the print version of my collection, The Dark is Light Enough for Me, currently available as an ebook at Amazon, B&N, and OmniLit, is in the works and getting close. Yes, she actually asked me for an author photo. I had no professional studio shots, just some random shots of me. She said, "No shots of you looking like you're in the Mafia." Actually, she really did say this. I sent two, she wasn't sure. So I sent four more. She will use one of those, but I have no idea which one. But it let me know that, yes...The Print Version is Very Close, Perhaps ThisClose, to being released.

Are you ready?

Well, I am. I want every version! I want them all! It's imperative for Wor(l)d Domination! Mwhahahahahahha...[cough, cough]. Okay, enough of this nonesense. Next time, well, leaning toward more AlternaWorld excursions, but there's also the possibility of other publishing news that might happen any second now so...well, don't hold your breath, even if blue looks good on you, but yeah, see ya soon!

So, this here picture has nothing to do with anything. Just some of my, um, Italian friends. What? Oh, no, nothing to do with the Mafia. These fellas, goodfellas most of them, they wouldn't know anything about Mafia. No way. Ahem.

;-)

Have you read these? The Dark...breathes...

2011-11-25T19:32:00.001-08:00

Just thought I'd drop in amidst the Thanksgiving/Black Friday madness to touch base and pass on some of the Amazon and Goodreads reviews for my debut collection, The Dark is Light Enough for Me.

A handful:

"I can't say how much I loved this book but I will try.
This is a very talented author.The stories were frightening and lyrical.Prose like this takes a lot of effort and this writer has it down pat.
The stories are also very literary reminding me a little of Ligotti but with more dialogue.
This is a wonderful collection that I am sure that I am going to read again and again."

"This is certainly not the average horror short story collection. These tales are imbued with a dark flood of images and written in a beautifully terse prose. They all bear a close relation to life, but their twists and turns are like concentrated dynamite. Get yourself a copy and plunge into darkness!"

"Dark is Light enough for me is an over the top write, a selection of stories that addresses the most inner desires, misses in life, and guilt feelings associated and spiced with a vivid imagination of the author. The stories are thrilling and endorphin rising. You will never stop anticipating :-)"

"I really enjoyed this dark journey--probably one of the best short-story collection I've read in years. The way Mr. Smith twists his plot is on the same par with early Steven King. Amazing darkness here."

;-)

And this one from Goodreads:

"A perfect read for those who like an eerily wonderful exploration of the illusion of reality and the surreal nature of life as we think we know it. A new favorite author--he consistently delivers!"

Lovely!

So, a good start, eh? I appreciate all the kind words from these people, posting them here for the blog readers who've yet to make it to the page or pick up a copy. Well, don't these reactions inspire you to give it a go? I would think so, heck, it would inspire me, hehe...

Anyway, the book is available via Amazon worldwide, Barnes & Noble, and OmniLit.

Amazon.com:

http://www.amazon.com/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1320955068&sr=8-1

Amazon.co.uk
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1320958608&sr=8-1

Barnes & Noble:

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1107159029?ean=2940013567245&itm=1&usri=the%252bdark%252bis%252blight%252benough%252bfor%252bme

OmniLit:

http://www.omnilit.com/product-thedarkislightenoughforme-638242-238.html

Amazon Germany:

http://www.amazon.de/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1321156971&sr=8-1

Amazon France:

http://www.amazon.fr/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1321231116&sr=8-1

Please join the others in exploring my Darkness...

Thanks for your time. I expect to be back in the AlternaWorld with the next post. I wonder who we'll run into then...hmmm...

Perhaps the print version, hopefully out in early December, will come in a special version like this, etched designs and a lock and...no, I think not, but it is coming and I can't wait, either. This book is a Necronomicon put together by Richard A. Poppe, and rather intense, eh? But I'm sure it would cost you an arm and a leg and perhaps your soul. I'm sure mine won't cost that much...
;-)

Jimi Hendrix says "The Dark..." is Groovy, man!

2011-11-19T17:26:00.001-08:00

I've decided this time to trek over to the AlternaWorld myself, to find out for real what is up with my book.  To find out more about the wide-spread reach of my collection. Reports from Jupiter and the Ice Worlds out near Aldebaran, as well as The Bronx (?) of its existence Out Beyond really got me hyped, but what of the worlds that run right alongside ours? What of the Other Dimensions? Yeah, well...this time, I thought it best to slide into the interstellar slipstream via the Videodrome transport station in my computer screen myself and--what ? Oh, you've got it, too! We all do. It's just...let's put it this way. With the first step being "thoroughly oil your naked body," most interstellar slipstream travellers never make it out of their bedrooms, computer rooms and such, distracted by the process and, er...you might get my drift, but if not, well...think on it and get back to me the second Tuesday of next week.

Anyway...

Anyway, after doing that and not being distracted to exhaustion, ahem...press in sequence, Delete - Home - Esc - 2 - Alt - then pick the code of the AlternaWorld, or whichever dimension you want to explore...and step through the screen.

So...

Now that I am here, a bit disorientated from the trip and being spat out like a hairball on the hard metallic road, I am immediately inundated with loud music adorned in raspy curls of feedback, and vocals that sound familiar. I shake my still wobbly head until focus is gained and I see to my left a tall man with an even taller afro and dressed in wild, tie-dyed colors bashing away on a flaming guitar that doesn't seem to be burning his fingers at all.

Then the words hit me, the end of a familiar song, but not so familiar any more. Different lyrics.

"The traffic lights they turn black tomorrow
And shine their emptiness into my dreams
Strange words float in my tattered subconsciousness
‘Cause the dark imagination tears at the seams
And the dark is light enough for me

Will the wind ever remember
The tales it has read in the past
With his nightmare stallions snorting gaily
It whispers yes, gleefully, they'll last
Because the dark is light enough for me

Bring on the darkness..."

I am stunned. "The Wind Cries Mary" lyrics twisted to fit my book, an homage forged in a haunting, feedback-swathed melody. I applaud loudly as I approach none other than Jimi Hendrix, creator of this mad mash-up, playing for spare change on this metallic street.

He turns to meet my applause and says, "John Claude Smith?"

At which point, with no author photo on my book--heck, it's not out in print on Earth for a few more weeks--and not even sure of internet access out here, I wonder how he knows who I am.

"Why, yes, Jimi.  That was fantastic!" I am still in awe, but need some answers, such as: "How do you know who I am?"

He laughs, guffows tumbling as the guitar still whispers and wheezes, feedback lurking between the shuffling people and strange buildings and even Biblioteca de Borges y Café en el Borde de Eternidad (Borges Library & Café at the Edge of Eternity), where my sources had the conversation with Salvador Dali about my book.

"It's your aura, man. No other resonates with quite the same dark aura."

I don't know how to take this, but continue my, er...research.

"You've obviously read my book. How did you get a copy...out here?"

"Out here? Way out here, you mean." More laughter as he lightly strums, "Purple Haze." "It was handed to me by the flowers.  The words poured upon me as rain. I opened my inner eye and it crawled in and shook up my soul. It was beautiful."

"Beautiful? My book is beautiful?"

"Perhaps beautiful ain't the right word. It was groovy, man." Then he paused, that hiccuping strum before singing, "Excuse me, while I kiss the sky," and turned toward the heavens above, puckered his lips, and like mist be floated upward, becoming one with the rainbow colored clouds, saying again, "Groovy, man," and...gone.

Completely discombobulated and uncertain of what I had just witnessed, I wander on to see whatever or whomever is next. I need to know more, and all Jimi did was confound everything, no real answers, all riddles.

Of course, I can't complain since the book is out here in the AlternaWorld, but still...How has this happened?

***

Curiouser and curiouser.

If you are interested in the book Salvador Dali says is like, "Dark Chocolate for the Mind," and Jimi Hendrix has called, "Groovy, man," well...you can find The Dark is Light Enough for Me at Amazon.com, as well as Amazon in the UK, France and Germany, Barnes & Noble, and OmniLit.
Here's the Amazon.com link for easy access.

http://www.amazon.com/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1320955068&sr=8-1

This surreal painting by Mark Ryden captures EXACTLY the Jimi Hendrix I met on the AlternaWorld. Really!
Enjoy!

A Conversation with Salvador Dali...?!

2011-11-16T23:19:00.001-08:00

My Other Realm sources--those who travel between worlds and dimensions--have informed me that Salvador Dali, The Master of the Surreal, now existing in the AlternaWorld, has gotten a hold of my collection, The Dark is Light Enough for Me. How he got a copy is beyond me. I didn't even know it was distributed Out There. Over There? Well, wherever the AlternaWorld is... Nonetheless, I was given this transcript of a conversation from one of my sources as he spotted Dali thumbing through the pages of my book as he sat in the Biblioteca de Borges y Caféen el Borde de Eternidad (Borges Library & Café at the Edge of Eternity), sipping Cthulhu Crushes with his pet anteater, Morrison, at his side.

My Other Realm Source: Mr. Dali. I see you've got a copy of John Claude Smith's debut collection, The Dark is Light Enough for Me.

Salvador Dali: What are you speaking of, young man?

MORS: The book in your hands. [pointing to Dali's white-gloved hands]

Dali: Ah, yes. Dali's hands. Participants in the greatest artistic achievements man has ever witnessed.

MORS: Well, yeah...sure. So, have you read the stories yet?

Dali: Dali has not simply read them. Dali has absorbed them. Dali is filled with the wonderful words.

MORS: So...did you enjoy the stories?

Dali: Delightful and nutritious. Like dark chocolate for the mind. Could have used more dashes and semi-colons as they are particularly tasty. But Dali's tongue dances freely at the words it has dined on.

MORS: [confused] So, does this mean you...would give the book a thumbs up review?

Dali: [adamant] Dali raises all thumbs and fingers in favor of more words from this Mr. John Claude Smith.

MORS: [talking directly to me in his hand held recorder] So, there you have it, our first Ten Star review, one for every finger and thumb.

Dali: Dali asks, who are you speaking to of this ten star review, young man?

MORS: I am taping this conversation for John Claude Smith. I thought he might be--

Dali: [snags the recorder from MORS hand] Dali knows strange, John Claude. Dali knows and lives strange. Your words are strange. But they taste good and Dali demands more! Do you understand? Dali demands more! [hands recorder back to MORS]

MORS: [backing away, the company of this madman too much for him] Um...yeah. I'm sure John Claude will appreciate the kind words. [shakes head; pauses; wonders how Dali got a print version of the book before it's officially out in print] By the way, one last question. How did you get a print version? It's not released in print for a few more weeks.

Dali: My girlfriend, who will remain Nameless, got me a copy.

MORS: [pushing for specifics] C'mon, give me a name, Dali. It'll be our little secret.

Dali: [suspiciously] I told you. Her name is Nameless. She is and will remain Nameless.

MORS: Okaaaaay...

Dali: And here she comes now. Nameless, darling...

A woman walks up. She has no eyes, is wrapped in a gauzy material, and is wearing long black gloves. She extends her right hand to Dali. He bows and kisses the back of her black-gloved hand, turns it over and winks at the eye in her palm. It winks back. She raises both hands to her face, palms out, and winks at MORS. MORS, rather stunned at seeing the cover model for John Claude's book in the flesh, makes a hasty exit, transmits this information to me via the shadow internet, and disappears into a multi-mirrored aisle in Biblioteca de Borges y Café en el Borde de Eternidad, never to be seen again. Well, okay, his image is repeated over and over and over, but he, himself, y'know...is never seen again...

So there you have it, my first AlternaWorld Ten Star review! Er...yeah! Okaaaaaaaaaaaaay, as MORS would say. Ahem.

Don't you think you would enjoy The Dark is Light Enough for Me, too? I mean...Dali would insist you check it out [available at Amazon worldwide, Barnes & Noble andOmniLit, with more sellers on the way] as it's a nutritious treat for your tongue...as well as dark chocolate for your mind.

What? Oh, yes, this IS the way my brain works.

Here's Dali and his pet anteater, Morrison, going for a stroll.

Enjoy!

Updates, Hadrian's Villa, The Dark...

2011-11-15T14:11:00.001-08:00

Completely winging it this time, no firm grasp of where I am going, but let's see. Yeah, okay, take my hand, it won't hurt...

Now that The Dark is Light Enough for Me is out--have you bought your copy yet? Have you at least checked the Amazon, B&N and OmniLit pages and "like"d it there? What? Sure, a bigger sample: go to Amazon.com and there's the Look Inside feature. There you have the Whole First Story, "Black Wings," a tempting teaser, with the beginning section of the second story, the title story, which is a really tempting teaser. Check em out, buy the book, and realize I never knew I had to be such a promotion whore but...it's kind of fun and, anyway, where were we?--it's time for me to remember it's not the only writing I have...as well as I need to lock in with the writing at hand.

There's so much more in progress.

What? Oh, yeah, that was probably the most ridiculously long dash-to-dash aside I've ever written. Like I said, winging it...

How about a recap, which kind of serves as a reminder to myself of what I need to work on for, well, let's say the rest of the year.

First of all, while in Rome for three months, I spent about 6-7 weeks of that time writing the first draft of a novel. Now, when I got there, I had another novel I was beginning to work on, but that one needs more research, which was how I expected to spend the time. So, walking through Hadrian's Villa amidst the amazing architecture--then again, what architecture isn't amazing in Rome?--something struck me that had nothing to do with the visual beauty.  Something was making itself known to me aurally: the cicadas. What a symphony, dissonant and all-enveloping, chittering unmercifully. Many would have been annoyed. Me, no no no. I love sound, have said it numerous times here. What they did, this insect din, was inspire me.

I started taking notes, something was in motion.  I met the characters, then had them altered by offhand conversations, one of the writer's best modes of creativity: listening to the world with our mind's wide open. Anyway, a first draft was written, some of it almost fully formed, some of it in need of much work, some hole to fill in as well. About 51,000 words. I expect another few thousand on the way, heck, it will probably end up being about the same length as my first two novels, right in the 60,000 word range.

It's tentatively called, "The Mantra of Metamorphosis."

All because of a stroll through Roman history and our sonic accompaniment. All so unexpected, yet now, knowing the first draft and knowing where it should end up, it was a gift. A welcomed gift, the muse was generous.
Besides that, I have at least one shorter piece, a long short story or a novelette, that I need to finish, with a specific market in mind. A weird fiction piece called, "The Alternative Translation." A truly devious and, again, weird piece of work. This one makes me smile like a mad scientist every time I get back to it.

There's also poetry. That's what I have messed with today. Wrote this one Bukowski-esque one while on vacation in Torre Alfina, north of Rome--yes, being anywhere in Italy with the woman I love is quite inspiring--so today typed it up, tweaked and shaped it and sent it off asap to meet a deadline, which different time zones may have nullified, but it was good to just do it and get it done. Now.  Worked a couple more into shape, too.

Yeah, it's what I do, this writing gig.

And most of all, please check out the new collection, this time not mentioned as an aside, but headlining its own paragraph. The Dark is Light Enough for Me. There's even two five-star reviews on Amazon.com so far--thanks to those readers! Twelve stories, 67,000 words, $3.99, that's about 33 cents per story, man, what a deal!

;-)

So, there's the brief recap and I didn't even note the next story to be published, in Grave Demand magazine. I'll save that for next time. For now, here's a shot Alessandra took of Antinous' head floating in the pool (Canopus), at Hadrian's Villa. Rather surreal, most intriguing.

Enjoy!

Intermission: A Flash Fiction Piece, Then Back to Our Regularly Schedule New Release Promotion-type Stuff!

2011-11-13T22:12:00.001-08:00

I was reminded of this story earlier while on FB, in a thread about werewolves and such. This story relates, and has my all-time favorite joke incorporated into it! And, yes, it is a tasteless joke, but an amusing one as well. Very black humor

So, here, take a gander at "Laughter."

Enjoy!

***

Laughter

By John Claude Smith

Laughter is the best medicine, thought Carl. And he desperately needed a dosage of gigglesand guffaws about now. It’s the onlything that deterred the desire to kill.

Well, most of the time.

He entered the ironically titled Laughing Hyena Comedy Club seeking tosuppress what his body ached to become, shuffling to a stool shrouded indarkness at the back of said club. Looking to the stage, he listened to the fidgety comedian.

“So my wife, um…she got pregnant—”

“No fault of yours, eh?”

Carl glared at the heckler. Hehated hecklers. They were neverfunny. And Carl needed funny rightnow. He needed to laugh. He couldn’t help himself, the acid roiling inhis belly like a tsunami trapped in a water balloon: “Shut up!”

Everybody gazed into the darkness atthe back of the club; the darkness disallowed their perusal. The heckler waved his hand, a mockinghello. Carl ignored him.

Undeterred, the comedian continued: “Yeah, it w-was my fault. Anyway, when she had the baby there were…complications.”

Carl felt it in his bones, felt it scratching under his skin…

“So, um…m-my wife asks, ‘Can I see my baby?’ and the doctor says, ‘Yes,’and leads her into a room where there’s a baby on a bed with no arms and no legs…andshe asks, ‘Is that my baby?’ and the doctor says, ‘No,’ and she says, ‘Oh, whatcould be worse?’”

The heckler peered pensively into the darkness, itchy to respond.

“So they go into the n-next room and there’s a head on a pillow, and sheasks, ‘Is that my baby?’ and the doctor says, ‘No,’ and she says, ‘Oh, w-whatcould be worse?’”

Carl felt it rising in him. Heliked sick and twisted humor. But heneeded the comedian to get to the punch line quicker. He felt himself changing, his snoutelongating, and the pin-pricking rash of bristly hairs pushing through hisskin, shredding his clothes.

“So, um…yeah…they go into the next room and there’s an eye on ap-pillow, and my wife asks, ‘Is that my baby?’ and the doctor says, ‘Yes,’ andshe says, ‘Oh what could be worse?’ and he says--"

The heckler blurted through his invisiblemuzzle: “He says, ‘I suggest you name him Cyclops because—’”

Carl pounced on the heckler, tearing out his belly, pressing powerfulforelegs into the man’s chest while his short hind legs sat clumsily on the man’slap. The abrupt attack nailed everybodyto their seats. The comedian’s face wentwhite.

Carl turned, snout moist and dripping red, and said, “Punch line.”

The comedian stammered illegibly.

“Now!” barked Carl.

“And the doctor s-says, ‘It’s blind.’”

Carl emitted a growling hiccup of joy, of laughter; everybody joinedin. The comedian smiled.

Naked and satiated, Carl sprinted out the exit as his transformationfrom laughing hyena back into man had commenced, derailing the desire to kill…fornow.

After all, laughter is the best medicine.

***

There, that's just a tiny snippet of my writing. Want more? The bigger chunks get deeper, darker...more perverse and weird. You can find some in my collection, The Dark is...er...yeah, you probably know. Check around the blog, it's obvious.

You still laughing at the flash fiction or just shaking your head?

;-)

"Charging Werehyena" by Cara Mitten. Cool stuff, I'm sure Carl can relate...

We've Only Just Begun Playing In The Dark...

2011-11-12T22:22:00.001-08:00

This one's off the cuff, just me riffing. Hang on...

So, the book is out! As of 11-11-11, as I have been saying all along, my book, The Dark is Light Enough for Me, is out.

Did you buy your copy yet? Well, let's hop to it (please; yes, I understand proper manners, please and thank you, actually).
;-)

And for those of you who have bought it, I sincerely thank you! I hope you enjoy the frolic through my weird and warped mind.

Good stuff to do: review it, "like" it on the sellers pages--you know, Amazon and B&N and OmniLit, with more to come--love it, question my sanity, yeah, the whole deal.

But if you think in 2011 that's it, well...No.
Absolutely not!

Spreading the word and promoting sales is part of a writer's life. What? You thought we only wrote our books and let The Universe deal with sales? The times they are a changin'...er, wait! The Times Have Already Changed. Expecially for a writer getting his first book out there.

So, yes, I will be running around online, looking to talk to anybody about it--bloggers and horror sites and whoever, wherever; I am ready for interviews, guest blogs, whatever it takes to promote a book I am proud of.  I'm sure we'll work out giveaways and more. I mentioned reviews up there, well, if you are a magazine reviewer, show me what you got, and please contact me via my email; actually interview folks and mags can do the same.
jcsmith0919@yahoo.com

See, I told you I was riffing. I hope this makes sense. Primarily, it's just me saying, there's a lot more to do! HELP!

But, the main thing amidst all of this--being consistent in promoting it without being annoying--is that I actually feel like I can get back to some real writing again.

Real writing--what's that?

Well, I have the second draft of my third novel to dig into--my agent is shopping around the first two--a short story I am shaping for a specific magazine, plus a few more besides that.  Poetry, lovely poetry. And even research and what-not for the novel that follows the one in progress.

So, if you were wondering, yes, being a writer is not simply about writing. But that's ultimately what it comes down to in the long run.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled internet surfing; or, for those into the Dark Stuff, go ahead, get back to reading the collection.

;-)

This is what happens when you tell your brother your book is out and he says, oh, and I found your blog, too, but what's with the weird picture. Yeah, thanks a lot, bro...

Occupy The Dark! (Purchasing info!)

2011-11-10T16:49:00.001-08:00

Ladies and Gentlemen; Maniacs, Misfits and Malcontents; Animal Lovers, Pizza Twirlers and Headbangers; Friends, Romans, Countrymen, and just those passing through...lend me your ears.

More so, lend me your eyes and your minds.

The first stage of ordering info is ready.

A recap:

Twelve teaser blogs up: you can scroll through the last twelve blogs to catch up on samples and such from the stories in my collection, The Dark is Light Enough for Me. After doing that, perhaps you'd like to read more, get into the sordid details, the dark designs, the deviant excursions.

Well, as I type this, my publisher has sent the info to a handful of sellers and, surprisingly, Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk already have it ready to roll! According to my publisher, Ampichellis Ebooks, they expected the other sellers to have it posted first. Oh, and as I type this, OmniLit has it posted as well. Good!

We got The Dark flowing now...

So, yeah, it's time! Here's the info for purchasing the collection from:
Amazon.com:

http://www.amazon.com/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1320955068&sr=8-1

and for my friends across the pond in the UK, here's your link:
Amazon.co.uk

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1320958608&sr=8-1

Of note, my girlfriend said she could not order the book through Amazon.co.uk, and she lives in Italy, which seems odd. (Um, yes, she ordered it before going to bed a few hours ago...) She ordered it from Amazon.com. So, either way, it's available via Amazon worldwide, check em out and I'm sure one will work for you.

And here's the OmniLit link as well:
http://www.omnilit.com/product-thedarkislightenoughforme-638242-238.html

So, please join me, take my hand and we'll...

Occupy The Dark!

The Dark is Light Enough for Me.

How about you?

Teaser #12: “Things That Crawl…In Hollywood.”

2011-11-09T18:31:00.000-08:00

(I originally wrote, Teaser #9. Perhaps I don't want these teaser blogs to end, they've been fun.)

I write a wide variety of dark, speculative fiction. Most often it is horror, though for thenovels I see a strong magic realism quality; this was not planned out, it justhappened that way, even if the magic realism is branded with horror or, atleast, major mindfuck (excuse me) psychological tendencies…with a nod to thesupernatural as well. (Oh, wait untilthe novels get published, especially, The Wilderness Within. You want to be taken for a real ride? Thatone builds and builds and then—Crack! All bets are off and…where was I? Better jump out of this parentheticalaside and get back to the point…) Every now and then, it’s simply a story thatdecides to go off the rails and, as Mick Jagger might put it, PAINT ITself withBLACK humor. Still horror, but the toneis laced with absurdity.

Man, perhaps I shouldn’t be doing this blog. I think my brain is leaning toward thosetendencies as I type it right now!

[Straightens self in chair, shakes head, squiggly lil’ impsfall out of his ear and onto his shoulder; brushes them off, much to their dismay, and continues…]

“Things That Crawl…In Hollywood,” is one such story. I have no idea where they come from, but theysure do come…I think they’re coming for me. Damn, am I almost quoting Ted Nugent now? What the… Yeah, anything goes, with all of my fiction; but when it gets loopy,well…

I have a great distaste for celebrity, false idols and such, andthose who follow blindly, as if their words are law. I also have a fascination with anatomicalhorror, body horror, because I know when using the body within fiction, peoplecan relate on a deeper level. If onegets one’s eyelids duct-taped open and a beetle crawls slowly across the naked eye, well…yeah, that reaction, the one you just had. See, you can sense it; you can relate.

Mixing these two subjects promises a perverse union, whatwith the narcissistic, plastic surgery, ego inflating vanity of saidcelebrities. And with the celebrities all falling apart, piece by piece…

And the pieces aren’t exactly…dead.

Okay, I’ve said too much but once in a while you get that, sothere! Here, now, I’ll drop this sampleon you as we join devious TV producer, Merrill Thatcher, and second-handcelebrity in need of a career boost, Josh Brance, as they discuss the show they are to film:

***

“So…we’re looking for…Things That Crawl…?”

“In Hollywood! Don’t forget the tagline.”

“Body parts?”

“Well, yes, body parts. Kind of…”

Before Brande could delineate furtherinfo—more to give his confusion density, not really furnishing a finerunderstanding—Thatcher put the handle of the wheel bound cage in Brande’ssweaty free palm. He had his own odds’n’ ends accoutrements to deal with, what with a net, taser, Bowie knife, andhis own .44 Magnum.

Then, Brande’s bewilderment nudged throughthe haze: “Body parts? Kind of?”

“Yes and no. Has something to do with environmental andgeological oddities—EGO, as the rags like to humorously call them. Something about how, after The Big One hitL.A. six months ago, having split deep into the earth and released heretoforeunknown airborne elements—gases and toxins—a breakdown had ensued. Seems those who had undergone plastic surgeryof any sort, be it face-lifts, breast implants, Botox, collagen, you name it,anything unnaturally altered, because of the chemicals or process itself—nobodyreally knows—well, the tainted parts began to mutate, take on a life of theirown and—”

“Fall off?!”

Thatcher hesitated, a wry grin addressinghis lips—all absurdities confirmed—the North and South poles of his thick,bulldog-like head bobbing in concurrence.

“So the object is to—what?”

“Our initiative is to capture andcatalogue.”

Brande’s eyes narrowed. “Catalogue what”

You are as dumb as a sock puppet, thoughtThatcher. “The body parts wecapture.” Thatcher smiled, bit off theend of a cigar and knelt down to strike a match against the pavement. “The celebrity body parts we capture.”

***

And away we go!

There’s a sequence later in this story, when we find out thetrue reason why Brande has been asked along for this venture that contains oneof my favorite lines in any or my stories. Add to that some love--yes, this is a love story, of sorts, and as I like to say, all bets are off. Did I mention the multiple layers within the fiction I write at some point in theseteasers? Yeah, I’m sure I did.

So, that’s the last of the teasers. Twelve stories, quite varied, overlappingthemes, sequenced with intent…I'll now take a deep breath, let out a heavy sigh, andrealize as I type these words, there’s less than two days until the release ofmy first collection. I hope you enjoy the collection when it's released 11-11-11--yes, I'll post a blog with the purchasing info in a day or so, as well as post purchasing info on all of the pertinent social networking sites and what-not.

The Dark is Light Enough for Me.

Are you ready?

Take my hand, I'll lead the way...

This fantastic art by Chris Mars seems appropriate, reveling in a similar essence. Well, look, it works for me and you can tell me yes or no once you get to read the story in a couple days. ;-)

Teaser #11: “The Sunglasses Girl.”

2011-11-08T18:49:00.000-08:00

I was ticked off, irritated, there was some reason for me tobe driving away, to be alone for a bit. To calm down. I don’tremember. (Which means I could becompletely wrong, but…) I drove to thesmall airport and sat in front of a fence, pulled out a pad of paper andstarted writing. I wasn’t sure what itwas, but it dealt with one of the local prostitutes I’d seen around town. Thistown, Hayward, California, was and remains a grimy, grey bruise of a place. And prostitute is too classy a name for whatI would see wandering those dark streets.

The story dealt with a hooker.

Anyway, I hadsomething, the beginning of a story: this guy messes up and cheats on hiswife, is kicked out, is falling deeper, spiraling down like corkscrew destiny,acclimating to the fancies and foibles of the streets, out here, where duskpromises long nights of deviant deeds and worse.

Out here, where something else lives, breathes, andfeeds. On us.

A few years later, going through snippets of written stuff,looking for something to work on, I found the notepad, and this story. “The Sunglasses Girl.” A lot of it was there, it just needed a freshrun-through, let it flow and see where it goes.

And where it goes…oh my!

This one’s a gnarly mess. Our main character, Trane, would tell you as much. Because as The Sunglasses Girl gives him whathe wants, he decides he wants more…and more is not always a good thing.

Not when you’re dealing with…well, a thing like her, it…her…well…

Here’s a sample, our main character, Trane, thinking abouther:

***

She had a gait—slow,deliberate, no hurry in her stride; no overzealous thrust of hips—that tantalizedhis imagination and burgeoning erection. She seemed almost languid, but with purpose. As far as he could tell, she was ofindeterminate age. But, as with most ofthe prostitutes that prowled the desolate, torn and trashed landscape out here,they were always of indeterminate age. The life wore on them, like sun to a grape. Late twenties, maybe early thirties, maybe.Her hair was of a mahogany tint he had never seen; at least not like hers. It hung, straight and long, like somepolished, unrecognizable woodwork. Hermouth was always closed, a thin straight line, no curve up or down to decipherjoy, happiness, pain, sorrow or apathy. Her figure was lean but shapely.

There was nothing that really made herstand out in any way that would distinguish her as anything more than asomewhat attractive woman. But there wasa mystery, some kind of secret buried within her he wanted to know, because dayor night, sunny or overcast or lamp-lit darkness, whenever he had seen her shewas always wearing sunglasses. There wassomething about this one additional element, this one simple accessory thatperked his interest. She seemed to behiding something, or so he thought; the eyes, of course, but something more:the doorway to the soul, perhaps. Tranenoticed her long before his life went skidding into a ditch and had oftenthought about her; now, free to explore the dark places within himself, he wasdrawn to her like an alcoholic to a brown-bagged bottle.

***

Is she just another hooker, but with a gimmick? Something to set her apart from the otherswho make back-alleys and back-seats their sweat stained offices? (And, yes, funny that I call her a prostitute in the story, man, what's with that after I go on about the sub-level class of streetwalker prowling about in Hayward? Ah, well...)

No, not at all. [insert Evil mad scientist laughter here]

This one was inserted at this stage in the collection tobring us back to a more defined horror vibe. Where “Plastic,” is fantastical in an urban, nuts ‘n’ bolts kind of way,this one remains in that weary landscape, but with a completely differentperspective. This one enjoys amping upthe dread…blood…death…

One more teaser left. Kind of a kid brother to the theme that runs through “Make Pretty”—overlappingthemes and such criss-cross throughout the collection, always with a purpose--thoughwith a more humorous, yet twisted, really twisted mindset.

Black, soulless eyes that might be much like those of "The Sunglasses Girl."

Teaser #10: “Plastic.”

2011-11-07T15:24:00.000-08:00

Our humble narrator asks of himself, amidst a situation whererevelations loom ever nearer: “What did I truly hold closest to my soul?”

Revelations. There’s alot of those in my stories. That justcame to me.

Another question, the answers sifting through the mental fog:“What one aspiration defined me above all other aspirations?”

And another: “What motivated me in ways I had forgotten, yetnow knew were on a horizon, somehow on a horizon?”

And then he sees the light at the end of the philosophicaltunnel, not an exit bringing simple answers. Not a train to bulldoze over him. Not anything expected, yet so clear once ithits him. A revelation wrapped in theguise of an epiphany.

The truth, no matter the price to be paid.

“Plastic” is one of those organic writing rides, no real idea where it was going to go when I started it, an oblique startingpoint that mutates into something special. We follow our loser narrator as he attempts to get a hold of his so farmislead life. But what’s wrought in thebones often comes back to sway even the best intentions. He gets a job at a Genesis Plastics, with promises of bigmoney to help him hasten his excursion out of the drab town he's lived in his whole life, but the work is strange, just as the place; and his superior, Nilfren.  Other elements add to his mounting breakdown, coming together to nudgethe old ways out of hiding, where drink and women derailed everything.

But his derailment, in one of my favorite sections I've everwritten (chapter 5), does not prove tobe permanent, because what happens in the final chapter (6), takes him to suchunexpected places even the reader may find wonder in the final…revelations.

Here’s a sample from chapter 5, where our unnamed narratorhas stumbled hard and he heads back home to a woman who might make sense, awoman he met at work—Kris—yet within the breakdown, he’s cognizant of thingswithin himself changing. Something isdefinitely in motion.

***

     Head clearing, I realize I might be destined to slink through life on the edge of living it right, maybe never getting out of this place. I
’ll tell myself the lie and set up the goals and maybe, just maybe, I will get out, but that’s now something I realize might never happen, and until about a week ago, I was dead set and seeing it as viable, the way, the only way, something to live for and...

     Kris at the apartment door, sad doe-eyed look and I hug her hard and wonder what am I doing and hug her more and I cry, breaking down differently now, crying and wondering if all that matters in this life are little moments like this, where somebody cares and you get to care back and then we are in bed and she’s taking me inside her and it feels like something I could deal with for awhile. Maybe. Maybe not. And I am coming and she is screaming and it’s a mess of sounds that slash like daggers back at us, digging into my flesh and I ache, a strange ache, and I wonder what the hell is going on and I see myself in the mirror afterwards and something is wrong...

     Something that has nothing to do with drinking or falling down and getting up, brushing off the failure; something real, something within. I look different in ways I cannot describe. I see this in my stance, feel it in the way my bones ache, know it as one knows their very body that something is happening.

     The word escalation seeps into my thoughts.

     The word, as I have associated with work—the mindless drudgery of that place—and I realize something had been escalating, but now it seemed to pause.

     Shifting to me?

***

Though this one is not horror, per se, it most definitelydeals in fantastical dimensions being crossed—Stop! Don't give any more away, man! See, there is always so much more to the stories than what they seem tobe about, though in every one there is something we can all hold on to, that gist of humanity, our link from the world we know, and the strange worlds jitterbugging just to the left of ours. Trust me (again), when you getto the revelations here, I hope you smile gleefully as the right choices aremade. Really, they are, no matter wherethese right choices lead our narrator…

Next up, we meet Trane, a man who’s chosen to hitbottom. Something meeting up with afantasy woman helps him achieve…

Bart Simpson melting a green plastic army man. The narrator of "Plastic" can relate... (Yes, there IS a reference to melting green army men. Twice.)

Teaser #9: “The Perceptive One.”

2011-11-06T16:57:00.000-08:00

The original version of this story was written about 20 yearsago. It was 3,100 words long andwas called, “A Torrent of Ages.” Yeah,okay, I liked that title, but it sometimes confused the editors of the magazines I sent it outto. I got my first rejection from thisstory, from Kristine Kathryn Rusch at Pulphouse. At least she was kind in her words.

A few more rejections and a chunk of years locked into MusicJournalism, time-warp to early 2006. I’d just completed my first novel during afurious rush at the end of 2005 (though it must be noted, a major revisionhappened earlier this year, one that really brought out an undercurrent of "somethingwrong"), and I still felt like writing something long, something with room tobreathe, and I was going through old work, pieces of this and that, when I cameacross a printed out version of “Torrent...” Reading it, I knew the idea was good, but it was lacking…something. It needed something else. It needed another character. Hence, my introduction to Peg Saunders.

She was a character fully developed almost immediately; shewas already there, ready to take the reins. Her voice came so easy, her pain and deep understanding of people andthe world around her, simple, direct. Herreflective tone and perceptions added real depth as she looked back onincidents that changed not just her world, but that of a passing lover who wasmore than that: Travis Wayne.

Travis was all ego and strut. He had goals he had no idea how to attain, but he didn’t care. He expected much because of that ego and theevil undercurrent that prods such a monstrous outlook.

What he got was what only such a corrupt soul could get: his justrewards.

But it doesn’t stop with that. Because of Peg Saunders. A woman you will come to care for, and you’llfeel her pain.

Here’s the beginning, to give you a taste of Peg’s voice, anda hint that her tale is not one filled with joy.

***

I wrote this aboutTravis early in our relationship, a bit rough and poetic, but I think itcaptured the essence of who he once was: “Lean, mean, quite obscene; tougher than a stick of beef jerky andcruder than a stiff breeze from the slaughterhouse. Wheat-blond hair and the bluest eyesimaginable, like the sky had been polished and placed in his care; like thecolor of summer on a liquid glass ocean…”

My Travis.

I loved him thenand love him still. But it’s differentnow, this love we have. I have. I don’t believe Travis loves anything at thispoint. But that was partly the fault ofhis ego and the devious designs wrought by that ego that led him to the placehe is in now.

The rest of it wasdestiny, something I used to not believe in, but now it is all I know.

But I’m movingmuch too fast and there’s so much more to be told about the decisions anddetails that derailed those devious designs. Two days in July, 1957. That’sall it took to change our lives forever--no, that’s not correct. That’s all it took to steer our lives alongthe paths they were always destined to travel.

The wretched paths, our wretched paths,entwined…

***

The end of this one…if it does not dig deep and touch you,perhaps emotionally tear you apart, well…then I’ve not succeeded. But, then again, it’s not me telling thestory, it’s Peg, and trust me, you will feel her anguish. Every time I read this one it tears me apart!

Also of note, when I revised and added about 8,000 words, it also had a different name. “ATorrent of Ages” was replaced by, “The Oblivion Express,” a title quiteappropriate for the tale Peg tells, but since it is her tale, she decided—alongwith a suggestion from my editor, hehe—that, “The Perceptive One,” wasperfect. And she was right; she wouldknow, oh yes, she would know...

Next up, as we round the corner for the home stretch, we findout what one thing is closest to one man’s soul…

Hieronymus Bosch's chaotic art relates perfectly to Travis' destiny. You'll understand once you read "The Perceptive One."

Teaser #8: “Strange Trees.”

2011-11-04T05:55:00.000-07:00

One of the places I truly love to explore with my writing isnature. There’s so much out there wecannot imagine, so many possibilities; it’s vast and unlimited and mysteriousin ways we can never really know. It’s aboon for the imaginative and willing writer. I’m willing--show me! Let me seeyour heart. Let me know yoursecrets! Talk to me, whisper, scream…

Let’s dance!

Okay, well, yeah, I dig nature. I particularly dig strange trees. One of my fondest fascinations. They are art of a different sort, natural,nature wielding as a sculptor, shaping, breaking down and reconstructing. Trees in general, and strange trees in particular, are a natural wonder we shouldnot ignore.

This one was originally called, “Shadows and Tall Trees,”after the U2 song. But it was changedrecently as I love the more direct title, as well as have many story ideas thatrelate to this subject, even a faux anthology idea, that I may eventually workout. (Isn’t that the way it is for allwriters, though? Juggling this idea andthat one and a novel or three, plus the short fiction and, hey, I need a storyfor that anthology asap.)

Photographer Terrence Blank and his part-time girlfriend,Mandy (it’s explained in the story), are out in the forest when she’s strickenwith her time of the month. As she wandersoff to deal with it--improvising as she must, it's also in the story, hehe--he has the time to clicks off a couple a couple more rolls with thesethoughts in his head:

***

I continued to takepictures, really fascinated by the luminescent quality of the bone white treesas the late afternoon sun glimmered off of them. An ambience of otherworldliness permeated myperceptions. It even registered in myears, a buzzing, hypnotic drone, the hum of nature, of thousands of smallsounds gathered as mass, as something of substance, yet still tiny andindistinct: the undercurrent of life; of dirt, foliage and sky; of insects andanimals unseen; of slowly evolving shadows and that something more thatdefines silence that is not silent, its tongue is simply of a language no humancan understand.

***

Later that evening, he awakens from dreams that might besomething more than dreams. And voices. Here’s asample from that sequence. Yes, a doubleshot of samples today.

***

“So, bad dream orwhat?”

“Yeah, Iguess. Not sure, but I heard voices,weird voices. Like…like if trees could talk, this would have been what theysounded like.”

“That’s freaky,especially since you were talking in your sleep.”

I raised aneyebrow in her direction. Shecontinued.

“Yeah. I could hear you from the sofa—you woke meup. I thought you must have been on thephone or something because I could only hear part of what you were saying. Nothing really clear, but you weretalking. It was odd. That’s when I got up and came to yourdoor. Curiosity, you know; wondering whoyou were talking to at this ungodly hour.”

I shook my head,completely lost, disorientated. Had Ibeen dreaming, talking in my sleep, the words landing light as mist on myeardrums? That would explain why Iactually thought I heard the voices, but I still could remember none of thedream.

That’s when Irealized I could smell the blood of her in ways that defied average perceptionsor sensations. I shook my headagain.

***

Hmmm, what is up? What’sgoing on? The revelations in this one,ohhhh, they are shocking once the forest reveals its heart to Terrence.

Next, we meet Peg Saunders, a young woman with a depth ofperception that costs her so much…

A strange tree, of course. Lovely, too!

Teaser #7: "Make Pretty."

2011-11-02T17:08:00.000-07:00

Another story where addiction is one of the keys,though a different kind of addiction: a narcissistic, media driven, Hollywoodtake on addiction.

The idea for this story originated while reading some work by Charlis Birkin, who specializedin a style of horror known as contes cruels. I can’t find a specificdefinition of contes cruels, but the stories tend to veer toward some depth ofhuman cruelty at their heart; their sick and twisted heart.

The sample here is after ageing actress, Christina Conero, has followedinstructions, snorting a powder that promises to be her personal fountain ofyouth. After a lovemaking session with actor and beleaguered husband, PhilipRaines, this snippet sets us up for the first of two horrific jabs; the secondone is more the knockout punch, the cruel revelation at the heart of thisinsidious piece.

[the lukewarm towel is covering her face]

***

“What is the purpose of this?” he asked, tugging at the lukewarm towel.

“You’ll see in the morning. Good night now, I needmy beauty sleep.”

He finished his cigarette in silence only broken by the periodic shuffling ofsheets as she reached up and touched the towel, as if making sure it was inplace.

“You know I love you,” he said, before turning on his side and falling asleep.

He was dreaming about when Christina and he had first gotten together, and thattime in Hawaii, on the warm sand with the moon as a shy spotlight. He said hewould love her forever.

And she screamed…but that was not in the dream.

He flung his arm to Christina’s side ofthe bed; it was empty.

“Christina, what’s wrong? Where are you?”

Shescreamed again.

He took four urgent strides to thebathroom and shoved the door open.

“Christi—”

***

STOP! No, don't want to give it all away! Oh, I want to tell you more, but you’ll just have towait until The Dark is Light Enough is released, 11-11-11.

If you are following this blog, you’ve probably noticed the collection has awide variety of subject matter and styles. Though I see a more weird fictionslant to my current stories—well, except for the novels, man, I have no ideawhere they come from or what they are, but I like em!—over the years I’veapproached storytelling from many different angles. Probably influenced by alot of the writers who got their careers in gear in the 80s, like Clive Barker,Joe R. Lansdale, David J. Schow and the likes, as well as Harlan Ellison, RayBradbury, and J.G. Ballard before them. An odd mix, toss in the Masters of theWeird, H.P. Lovecraft, Clark Ashton Smith and many more, the stories are theresult of this melting pot of influence as channeled through my perceptions, myvoice. And I've not even mentioned how music plays a Huge role in much of mywriting; art as well.

I believe life itself and simply being curious andopen to the possibilities and letting my imagination run with them is probablythe biggest influence of all, hehe...

Next up, we head back to the forest, where naturehas its own devious designs…

This Bizarre and Brilliant artwork by Eric Lacombe perfectly captures the vibe of "Make Pretty."
Enjoy!

Teaser #6: “Not Breathing.”

2011-11-01T16:09:00.000-07:00

This is the other drug story. No, actually, the drugs are quite peripheral here…if at all.  Or perhaps this is more a story of addiction…? Dead souls lingering? The dreaded limbo in between life anddeath? One and all of the above or…somethingelse?

Don’t ask me, my answer might change with each reading…

Ah, sweet ambiguity.

As I have mentioned before, I don’t tend to write simplehorror stories. Layers and more are whatexcite me in the stories I write as well as the stories I read that leave thebiggest impression. “Not Breathing”epitomizes ambiguity, an uncertain thread weaving in and out of the maincharacter’s perceptions, in which the original vibe—a person who has had theirlife shattered by drug addiction—might just be completely wrong!

Again, I’ll let the reader figure it out and build their owntakes on it.

Here’s a sample, this one from somewhere within, where themain character has had an enlightening experience and goes back to the desolateone room apartment he and his partner live in; or is there really apartner? This is the prelude to furtherrevelations.

***

         Istrip off my clothes and snuggle next to you on the stained and tornmattress. Pulling bundled, filthy sheetsover my feeble body—cockroaches scuttle away at my intrusion--I whisper “I loveyou” and “I’m sorry I was gone, I had to see my kids, but…”

     The words die inmy throat.

     You don’t stir,don’t respond. I am not one to thinkmuch of it, but then I realize two powerfully blunt truths: You are cold in ways that make my skinhurt.

     And you are notbreathing.

     My tether, myanchor to this world and the pain and fury of being human, of aching in waysthat scrape out the hollow within and leave a vacancy where the soul shouldreside—you are not breathing!

     I shake you alittle, “c’mon,” but you don’t c’mon. You chill the emptiness with your barren presence.

     I hold you becausethere is nothing else for me to do, there is nothing else for me to say--oh, adashed off, “I’m sorry for leaving tonight”--but that is simply the punch-lineto the joke that is my existence.

***

What follows confirms the hallucinatory path the whole storyhas actually taken, a kind of drug association via the main character's disorientedworldview...

A special note here. As writers, we all sense when strides forward in our writing have beenattained. There’s an odd moment here, thisline, “I shake you a little, “c’mon,” but you don’t c’mon. You chill the emptiness with your barrenpresence,” that served as one of those moments for me. That’s the raw line; I sensed an initial needto revise it, because that was simply the tendency with much of my writing afew years ago, always whittling away, perfecting, not realizing that perhaps perfectionwas in the original burst of words the story was built on. Odd, but that line was there, and I rememberlooking at it, thinking, Why? Why changea thing? Why mess with it? Sure, it may seem like nothing to others, but it alwayshits me when I read it how I know it was perhaps a moment where a trust of mytalent—or whatever is on hand in writing these stories—was engaged. I tend to revise as necessary, but now I alsotend to trust those moments when I sense I got it right the first time, at least a littlemore often. A part of the learningprocess; the constant learning process.

Next up, perhaps the most insidious, downright cruel piece inthe book…

This densely constructed drawing by the Excellent Horror Artist, Erin Wells, beautifully captures much of the elements within this strange tale; look closely, there's faces scattered all about.

Teaser #5: “I Want to Take You Higher.”

2011-10-30T21:21:00.000-07:00

I dig me some Sly and the Family Stone. When I was a kid, one of my best friends wasa huge Sly fan. So, by osmosis, I hearda lot and much of it worked for me. Oldschool funk is so much better than most of the dreck that qualifies as R&B nowadays.

I also enjoy drug fiction. I’m talking the work of William S. Burroughs for wild, stream–of-consciousnessimagery and gritty street truths; and Hubert Selby Jr., for taking it down tothe gutter and placing the needle to the literary vein. Tack on a bit of Jerry Stahl—Permanent Midnightis completely insane—and Charles Bukowski for the liquid side of addiction. All of these writers, in one way or another,transcribe truths that most of us would not admit to or even acknowledge. Well, perhaps--we writers like digging into those places, too; at least the writers of worth... Either way, they have a knack for crawlingunder my skin, into my brain, and becoming my addiction when I read theirwork. Fascinating, since I’ve onlydabbled in drugs and don’t drink much at all—wine; Jack Daniels; love BloodyMarys, though.

The creative aspect of drug fiction is what really hooks me,as I enjoy dabbling as well, allowing my brain to go to those places where thejunky might go, and allowing the speculative elements room to roam. Or, as with this story, slipping into theirworld and acclimating myself to the irresistible urges via words.

This one is the ultimate drug run gone wrong, so wrong.

Here’s a sample of the madness as it takes off, another openingsequence. We get a feel for our amped up narrator, as well as the other sideof the dual meaning for the title of this story—some people got religion astheir addiction, y’know?

***

The knock at the door could only mean one thing: Desi washere, with the drugs no less, not that I could really deal with any more rightnow, but why stop anything of such mind-numbing, reality altering magnitudewhen it’s got the pedal jammed to the floor?

I can stoptomorrow. There’s always tomorrow.

I unlatch thelock, swinging open the door with much flourish, eyes skittish, wanting to grabhim and drag him in and--

“Hello! I won’t mean to take up much of your time.” A Jehovah’s Witness or some like-mindedMessenger of God, fercrissakes, and his silent, strap-on buddy.

Options align asbowling pins awaiting the kiss of the rapidly spinning ball. Do I torture him for my own amusement withsnippets of my thespian talents and portray a Satanic serial killer, completewith a drooling, halitosis smitten smile and a black marker upside-down crosson my forehead ala Manson’s swastika etchings? Do I resort to politeness, after all, I was voted Mr. Politeness inkindergarten, given a red ribbon, like one does for a prize pig at the countyfair--“My, he sure is plump!”--in a quest to expedite his removal posthaste,without eliciting anything more than a furrowed brow or a plea caught in histhroat, God’s Messenger gagging on the message?

He interrupts thesquirming, beached marlin madness in my head.

“But we'revisiting folks in your neighborhood”—no way, I think, if they’d made it toHarold’s they’d be in the sausage grinder by now, live cams filming it all forinternet prosperity—“and were wondering if you read the bible.”

I pause, optionshazy, and choose the prize pig route: I snort at him.

***

Yeah, this one’s nuts! But as nuts as it is, it does what I call the Joe R. Lansdale thang. What are you talking about, John Claude? Well, when I first started reading Lansdalein the 80s, I loved the way a story might just mosey along and he's just rambling on in mega-funny guy mode, or simply getting disgusting, and it would meander anddawdle and the reader would get settled in, kickin’ back to the lunacy and WHAM—allof a sudden there’s a nail through the hand, or there’s some other shockingsense of mis-logic as rule of thumb, and the whole thing now has you by the lapels and there isno letting go until the grim and usually quite messed up finale.

This one kinda does that. Totally nuts!

I tell ya, it’s all about balance and pacing when laying out the TOCto make optimum sense of themes and overlapping elements, so the next story is theother addiction story, but of a completely different tone. Serious as a sledgehammer lobotomy.

Another story with a song as the title? Yeah, well...

Teaser #4: “Gladiatrix.”

2011-10-28T21:36:00.000-07:00

Time to get messy.

“Gladiatrix” drags us kicking and screaming back into pure horror, a more reality based horror. Though my favorite horror is steeped in dread, eerie ambience, weird fiction and the splintered litarary limbs branching out from that tree, I am not limited in what I write. And even though this one is reality based horror, it’s got enough obtuse elements to tinge it with something odd, which makes it more intriguing for me and hopefully for the reader, too. Watching a character grow from fragile child to, well, what she becomes—which may be what she has always been—is a fun trek, and in this case, a mental trek as we trip through her psyche, one fused with abuse and damage and so much wrong, that the strength and lethal empowerment of where she ends up is fascinating.

As with the previous two stories, the foundation culled from her past has really shaped her, harnessed this unexpected strength, but when that strength comes complete with no conscience, well…

Here’s a snippet, just a tad of the opening sequence, which hints at more going on than it seems—but you have to pay attention. As always, there’s more going on than it seems.

***

When Shannon Olivier opened her eyes it felt as though the lids were scabbed over and tearing. The light that bled through the sticky seam was dim, the darkness, nefarious. The lone bulb radiated just enough light to allow her to peek into the corners without really unveiling whatever cavorted or hid within the shadows. If she tried hard enough--an internal battle between curiosity and self-preservation via denial--she could make out a shape slumped across from her.

“Oh, God!”

The words were crisp as breaking glass; no echo. Opening her mouth embellished the horrors that filled her eyes and bombarded her nostrils: she could taste death--still warm, still moist--tangy blood and acrid piss and older smells like the residue of hope and something that might have been desire.

***

Yes, that's all--I want to give you more, but surprises are a part of the deal--but did you catch it? The hint I spoke of? Well, you will when you read the whole thing. A bloody slice of meat and viscera pie for the discerning horror reader. Whipped cream optional...

Mmmmm, tasty!

Another tidbit? Well, okay. Her favorite weapon is a machete. Huh? Oh, yes, wait until you see.

;-)

Next, a break. Well, not exactly. After the varied psychological battery of stories 2-3-4, pacing needs to be…altered. How about the ultimate drug run gone wrong story, with a soundtrack by Sly and the Family Stone?

The weapon of choice for the professional Gladiatrix...

Teaser #3: “I Wish I Was A Pretty Little Girl.”

2011-10-27T16:41:00.000-07:00

Yes, that is the title, I know, I know. Let me explain:

There’s a band called Brighter Death Now that does death industrial music and they have a song called, “I Wish I Was a Little Girl.” For reasons beyond my control—look, when it comes to writing, I’ve said it before and will say it again, it’s often simply that I am a conduit for whatever weirdness has decided to frolic through my brain and decided it needs expression--I decided, no, let's follow the thread here, ahem... My brain decided it wanted me to write a story that played on that idea; but how? (Or, perhaps why? is the pertinent question, you sick puppy, Mr. Smith.) Combine that with an image that formulated in my wee noggin while heading to the beach at Half Moon Bay one day of an arm sprouting out of a conical shell, and we’re on our way! Yes, that’s all it takes; yes, that’s the way the brain works, bizarre imagery and explorations of unfamiliar terrain are the norm. How do they relate? Well, you can find out in the collection, of course. This one’s disturbing, the back to back of the previous story (the title story; see previous blog post) and this one I find quite powerful, provocative. Gender issues are at the core; or perhaps it’s the illusion of myth that drives the story.

Hmmm… I’ll let you figure it out.

Actually, stories 2-3-4 touch on a similar theme—how the past shapes the main characters’ present. Where, “The Dark is Light Enough for Me,” taps into a modern Weird Fiction vein, “I Wish…” gets downright surreal, and “Gladiatrix”? Well, that one’s messy, real messy.

Back to “I Wish…” here’s a brief sample, the opening:

***

She is so pretty, thought Leslie. Lean, with just a hint of the woman she would become—if he let her—starting to show in the slight curvature of her tiny hips, and the bud of her nipples gaining uneasy prominence on breasts eager to bloom, jutting forth under the thin fabric of her pink t-shirt.

Perfect.

Leslie remembered his first feeble attempts at transformation and the sweet pain clothespins like deliciously pinching clamps had brought to his nipples.

***

Oh, boy. Yeah, there’s something definitely wrong here--the mindset--but when you find out why this mindset is as it is, you may have a different take on what you are thinking right now. Because, yes, I know: it’s not meant to be a comfortable ride…

Thinking out loud right now, it's interesting, trying to choose samples from the stories. Because there's A LOT going on in most of the stories, as in, transformation--one of my fave themes, actually. What you read here in no way can prepare you for where it ends up. As noted up there somewhere, the last third is wrapped in a warm blanket of surrealism.

Next up, ah, yes, perhaps the messiest story in the collection…

;-)

No, I don't exactly expect y'all to listen to this 'song,' though I used to quite enjoy this type of sonic chaos (and still do, to some extent), though usually without the ultra-distorted vocals. Yeah, must have been a stage, eh? No, actually, I really like the noisy pulse of this one, hehe... Most of you will click on the link and after perhaps fifteen seconds click it off and think, "That John. He IS a sick puppy."