Riding The Centipede: Private Investigator Terrance Blake

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

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

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

And what a place that is! 

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

***

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

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

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

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

     The stale stench of the room was infused with the ghosts of those who had passed through before him: transients and junkies and one night lovers, nomads and madmen and private investigators like him, getting by on somebody else’s dime, dismantling somebody else’s broken dreams.

 

     The chirping continued; his cell phone the culprit. He reached over in the dark thinking it couldn’t be time to be awake yet as shadows held conference in the room, his eyes. A glance toward the digital clock adjacent to the television confirmed his suspicions: 3:36 a.m. Scooping the phone into his thick, gnarled fingers, the light from the screen corralled motes of dust lifted by his clumsy maneuver. Dust he hadn’t noticed last night when he placed the bottle of whiskey there, the now two-thirds empty bottle.

     He wondered how long he’d been in this room, sleeping like Rip Van Winkle or dying with every stale inhalation, exhalation, and long pause to consider the prospect of terminating this bleak routine before carrying on, carrying on.

 

     He realized it was not the alarm that has inspired the insect revolution. It was a phone call. The name on the screen registered as familiar but not one he’d used often.

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

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

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

     One of the maids made headlines with allegations of rape.

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

     The tabloids ran with it all, going so far as to suggest Stella Teagarden, fifteen years younger than Warren, subsisted on over-the-counter and extracurricular drugs that induced supportive silence, a sheep in fox’s clothing. The fox wired for the depraved transactions of the flesh of which her husband allegedly catered.

  

     Rumors, all rumors, erased with the remains of their dwindling bank account, until their only son, Marlon, two years Jane’s junior, ran away when he was fourteen, hitting the streets while hitting the newspapers with torrid accounts of sexual abuse nonpareil.

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

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

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

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

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

     When Blake heard her voice on the phone, the muffled ringing of the truth he never heard in any of her statements at grief-stricken appearances traipsed into his migraine infused cranium. Nine months after the fire, her voice had gone from Hollywood-practiced and Hollywood-refined grief, to the voice he knew now on the phone. Strength tinged with desperation; iron braided with perseverance. She really wanted to find her brother.

 

***

 

Okay, that's enough for now.  If there's an error anywhere, that's just me transferring a pdf file to word then shaping it to fit here. 

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

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

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

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

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

Enjoy!

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

Anyway.  Rudolf awaits...

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A smile illuminated the darkness.

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

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

He was a miracle.

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

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

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

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

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

For life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He survived by sheer will, living on the remains of the mother, then gumming insects and rats, suckling them as surrogate breasts in his eager mouth; and sucking on torn wires and cables, draining them of whatever was left to fuel his being.

 

***

 

Okay, enough of that. Can't post the whole chapter.  But there he is, Rudolf Chernobyl, conceived and born the day of the Chernobyl disaster...and within range of the nuclear plant.  See what a warped imagination let loose can...birth.

 

A monster.

 

But there's more to Riding the Centipede than Rudolf Chernobyl.

 

You'll see...

 

 

 

Riding The Centipede: A Little Bit About Its Humble Origins...

It's not the novel I thought I was going to write. That much I know.  That's probably all I know.

It started with a rejection. Yes, the rejection of another novel triggered two things: first, to reevaluate what the publisher publishes and realize in my research that Autumn in the Abyss would be a more appropriate fit--yes, so now you know the publisher in question is Omnium Gatherum--and secondly, how to follow-up with a novel that might work for OG.  A comment in the feedback for the rejected novel, something to the effect of, "it's a bit straightforward," made me say out loud, "Oh, yeah?  I'll show you straightforward," which, of course, is meant in the opposite here.  And, of course, "straightforward" is a perceptual thing as I don't see the novel as straighforward... 

Anyway, now for the short version of how Riding the Centipede came into being, because I could go on and on and perhaps with interviews or what-have-you that may or may not follow, I can get into more details.  Even later blogs.  But for now, short and sweet.

On my yearly-until-my-Italian-girlfriend-and-I-are-permanently-together-summer-visit-to-Rome, I usually want to dig into a big writing project.  But I had no idea what it would be.  I rarely do, actually, and simply let the ideas flow. I remembered a page and a half of something I had written a few months earlier with a couple guys heading out to hook up with William S. Burroughs, who's not dead, and they do a deal where they inject their blood into him and it incubates in Burroughs for a couple hours, then they draw it out and shoot up and it all turns kinda wild and hallucinatory.  Yes, this is the kind of stuff I think about. 

Why not take this idea and see where it goes?

But I needed more well-defined characters and the hows and whys of the tale.  I started mulling over it all and that's when private investigator, Terrance Blake, and Hollywood runaway, Marlon Teagarden, decided to make themselves known.  Blake, a man in Johnny Cash black, including a black hat and a bleak outlook on life shaped by events from his past.  But as with any good novel, growth and/or transformation is a part of his deal. 

And Marlon? He's a lost boy/man on the run from his past...or simply insane.  A junky with subversive literature woven into his gray matter madness.  He would be the one on the way to Burroughs.

So, that's it, let's get started, I thought. I figured Marlon's tripping through the dark frontier of drugs would be a kind of road trip where each leg of his journey would include bizarre characters, a David Lynch twist on things. 

Then Rudolf Chernobyl showed up. 

Originally called Chernobyl Bob and the Ratchet Hounds--dogs made of metal and of a nuclear foundation, which was also to be a part of Chernobyl Bob's make-up (well, the nuclear part IS a part of Rudolf's make-up, ahem...)--I cut the hounds out, perhaps to show up in another tale, while the character decided to let me know his real name: Rudolf Chernobyl. 

Something insidious was being born.

Though I was about a week into the first draft of Riding the Centipede--yes, that title came early; it was there and I snatched it from the mist and made it mine--and I was, for the first time, writing a tale with two perspectives--one third person, one first person, making it even more complex--this damned fella, Rudolf, decided (insisted, really) he wanted in on the action.  I swear, there was a moment when I knew, I just knew, he needed to be involved the whole way and not just as a stop along the way.

Sometimes I think writers, and perhaps artists and musicians, any individual driven by creativity, are given gifts.  Something is shown to us that, if we are willing, we grab onto it and hold on for dear life.  Rudolf was my gift here.  Me, writing a tale with what might qualify as a Horror Icon kind of character--think Pinhead, Freddy Krueger--was never anything I thought I would do.  Yet one must be open to all the possibilities, no matter how they might seem not to fit what we (think we) do.  A Horror Icon? Yet he was The Most Fun to write, I swear.  He does...bad stuff...haha...

Yet the whole novel was The Most Fun to write, because it was a challenge in every way.  Two perspectives, why not three? Two third person, one first person...and one of them 'might' be unreliable?  Juggle that, John Claude... (And what about the process?  Perhaps more on that, soon. Because every novel shows you how it wants to be written and this one was no different.  A specific path was forged.) (What? Yes, there are two other completed novels and another one that only needs the ending written.)

Anyway, that's a bit out the origins of Riding the Centipede.  More info and samples soon. I'm just getting started.  I've barely touched on Burroughs, and what of Marlon's sister, Jane Teagarden, and the mad writer, Peter Solon, and all the other characters along the way? Well, you'll learn about them soon enough.

While I am here, might I suggest you pre-order a copy or three?  The paperback is up for pre-order nowm while the digital will be up in a day or three of this blog post.  Release day is June 29, 2015.

Are you ready to ride the centipede?

Here's a photo of me holding the notepad with the first notes and character sketches.  Yes, that's Italy behind me. 

And So It Begins: Riding The Centipede Pre-Order Info, Cover Art, Back Cover Blurb...

I'm going to be blogging a lot more with the imminent release of my debut novel, Riding the Centipede.  The new tentative and more firm release date is June 29.  We got started with the editing at least three weeks behind, so that May 25 release date is now in the rear view mirror, and we're looking toward the swiftly approaching horizon.  Still some editing to wrap up, our read-through...then, finally, we can send some copies out for review. I'm already getting in touch with potential author blurbs and reviewers.  Again, we're behind, but we also don't want to make the reader wait, so catching up is what is in motion.

So.

Dig the Mad Beautiful cover art put together by my publisher/editor, Kate Jonez.  Yes, that IS Marilyn Monroe riding a huge centipede.  She is an obssession for one of the characters, a 'girlfriend' of sorts, and even has a couple of brief cameos...in a way.  Only a minor detail in the whole of the story, but captivating in this, um...depiction, haha... Ah, but the details reveal more, hint at more that will make sense once the book is out in the wild and you can read it and luxuriate in the madness, the dark wonder.  Or something, heheh...  Anyway, the outfit she's wearing...is that scales like from a snake? Well, there is a character named...no! Not giving it away. 
:-)

How about the biggest teaser, the back cover blurb.  True story: About a week before I was going to send the manuscript off to Omnium Gatherum, I knew one of the things they request is a blurb of sorts, something that might be used in promoting the book. So, too early one morning in late November of last year, I was at the job waiting to get to work.  Sitting there, I pulled out my trusty notepad and thought, okay, what is this book about?  Who are the main characters?  I scribbled my blurb in perhaps five, ten minutes, and set it aside. Besides a couple of necessary details, that was it. No fret, no worry, just get it down and let it be.  I think it works quite well. Sets you up for the wild ride within the pages.  So, here it is: 

***

 

Private Investigator Terrance Blake spends most of his days shadowed by an event from his past, while dismantling the lives of those driven by the masochistic need to confirm the lies they deny are cold, hard truths, until Hollywood socialite Jane Teagarden calls him for only the third time in years with news on the whereabouts of her runaway brother, Marlon.

Marlon Teagarden has been a ghost for ten years, traveling through the underbelly of society as a means of blotting out a past allegedly rife with child abuse, until he is chosen to Ride the Centipede, leading to the ultimate experience, courtesy of literary translator of languages and drug-infused visions from inner and outer space, William S. Burroughs.

Just your average road trip chase through the dark frontier of addiction and alternative realities gone sideways.

Not quite.

Also along for the ride, at the behest of a mysterious employer, is a nuclear-infused force of corrupt nature, “some kind of new breed of human and radiation, a blotch, an aberration, cancer with teeth.”

Allow me to introduce you to Rudolf.

Rudolf Chernobyl.

Let the games begin…

***

:-)

Now, the important news: Riding the Centipede is available for pre-order Right Now.  Just click on the title in the previous sentence.  That's for the paperback and, yes, there will be digital versions too, of course. Really, go there, give my baby some love.
:-)


There will be more info over the next few weeks and months. 
Are you ready to ride the centipede?
The cover...here it is:

Just Out & In The Pipeline Horror Tales By Yours Truly, Circa 2015.

You might already have missed Vox Terrae, published by Dunhams Manor Press/Dynatox Ministries, who also published my novelette, Dandelions.  It was released in January.  Limited to only 50 copies, though their might be some left over for conventions, but it's no longer in the catalogue.  Alas...

:-)

Yeah, figured it might be good to catch up on publishing credits, for the interest of those who might be, um, interested, as well as so I can keep track of things.  Busy times.

Also out in January, my surreal Lovecraftian tale, "The First and Last Performance of Varack," was included in the Omnibus edition of the Monk Punk & The Shadow of the Unknown anthologies.  An interview with an obscure musician at a strange bar along the coast of northern California leads to a performance of apocalyptic proportions.  This was from an old idea, one I'd had flitting around my head for years, finally taking shape when the request was made for this anthology.


That's it for out now, but there's a lot in the pipeline.  I'll just give you the list and will be adding more details, a post about the tales, when they are published.  I'm catching up now because there will be a lot more blog posts dealing with my debut novel, Riding the Centipede, slated for late May release. I will be posting teasers and samples and more from that soon.  As I type this, my editor/publisher at Omnium Gatherum, Kate Jonez, has started in with the edits, so it's getting close.  As for the list of upcoming tales...

"This Is How It Ends" will be in the Soul Survivors 2 anthology.  It was scheduled to be out last year, but you know how the publishing industry is.  The same thing has happened to...

"I Am..." which will be in the A Mythos Grimmly anthology, combining Fairy Tales with Lovecraftian elements.  Circumstances out of hand have delayed that as well, but both these anthologies should be out soon.

My Heavy Metal horror tale, "Moshing With Adolf" (yes, That Adolf) will be reprinted in the second edition of the Axes of Evil series. 

"The Lust Vacuum," a Weird tale set in a strip club, will be included in Dynatox A-Go-Go,  published by Dynatox Ministries.  It's available for pre-order now.  It's also a reprint and one of my earlier tales I like a lot.  You know how some earlier tales just make you shake your head in a bad way.  This is not one of them. 
:-P

"American Ghost" will be included in the Joe Pulver edited, The Leaves of the Necronomicon.  It's a novel-length round-robin exploration of the Necronomicon, each tale dealing with a different decade.  "American Ghost" takes place in the 1970s. 

"The Cooing," an atmospheric exploration of escalating tension that turns Weird will be included in the inaugural edition of CM Muller's Nightscript.

"Those Who Dwell in the Periphery" will be in the...
Ah, can't say yet, not until the publisher gives the okay. It's a subtle Weird tale, one I've had for awhile and messed with often, nipping, tucking, and tearing it apart, because I really like it, dig the idea, and always knew it would eventually become what it is now: the tale it was always meant to be.  

And...as noted above, my debut novel gets dropped in the middle of all this, so there's a lot to look forward to if you're into whatever it is I am doing with words.

Also, I dabble in poetry and will have two poems--"Food For Sharks" and "Black Dog"--published in the next issue of Thirteen Myna Birds.  Quite pleased to have these out any day now.  I'll post a link in the blog when they are up.

:-)

I hope to add more tales to the list, but that's a start... 

:-)

Here's the wild cover for Monk Punk & The Shadow of the Unknown.

Erotic Horror For Insects & Even You: "Mosquito Dance."

I am in-between projects, having sent off first stage edits for my novel, Riding the Centipede--should be out in May, if all goes as scheduled; I'll be posting teasers and what-not before its release--to my editor/publisher last week.  So, in these times, I sometimes wander through works in progress and even go over some finished work for amusement.  I believe I have found the main piece to work on now, with perhaps a couple of backburner pieces to dip into as well.  Anyway, that's when I re-read an older tale, "Mosquito Dance."

It was originally published in a tiny, pocket-sized magazine called, Wicked Hollow, about 11 years ago.  Often when I go back and re-read stuff, it might bring a smile, but it's usually not where I am now.  But this one, amid a world getting wet and/or sticky over the Fifty Shades movie--I have no interest; I like my erotica in a more hardcore vein--might bring amusement to those of you into erotic horror.  Especially since it veers into BDSM a bit.

I'm going to post it as is, though if I were to do some touch-up, I would definitely get rid of many of the semi-colons.  Probably more work than that, but I'm not really going back, I'm moving forward.

So, for your amusement, arousal...and revulsion, here's "Mosquito Dance."

(And, yes, apparently 'amusement' is the word of the day...)

 

***

 

 

Mosquito Dance

By John Claude Smith

 

 

 

     Propped on the ridge of his ear and scattered on his pillow, they did not attempt to draw blood from their sleeping host.  They had grander designs.  As he slept, eyes darting under fleshy shields, deep in the throes of some imagined adventure, they extended the parameters of all known rationale as they attempted communication.  Rubbing insect bodies and converging as one, purpose honed, motivation aligned, they opened lines of transmission subtle yet intense: subliminal.  Connected on a level of sounds unheard by the conscious mind, they suggested, they persuaded patterns within his unrestrained mind.  At optimum mental vulnerability the “message” (tampering) slithered into a cavern of sub-consciousness, planting a seed.  It was their first controlled exertion, their success contingent on many installments, nurturing and prodding into fruition; into action.

#

     “Not again,” Stacy said, stepping into the shower, the sharp definition of her lithe figure shifting through kaleidoscope-like distortions via the ice crystal glasswork of the shower door.  Roger was oddly mesmerized.

     “Roger?”

     “Yes, again,” he said, snapping like a slingshot back to reality.  Another night, just like the previous two weeks’ worth, of weird, indecipherable dreams had left him groggy and reticent.  Dreams that vanished the moment his eyelids flickered open, the residue of which would evaporate in a swirl of meaningless mind dust down a drain in the back of his brain, replaced with iron rod stiffness in his muscles and joints, and a prevalent, all-encompassing hunger--a relentless need for food.  On every occasion he’d gotten himself breakfast (and a feast at that) before Stacy had even arisen.  The weirdest part of all, though, was how on at least three occasion it almost seemed as if he’d awakened in the kitchen gorging himself. 

     “Poor baby, “interjected Stacy from the shower, steam adding a foggy, television version of dreaminess to the proceedings. 

     Her condescending lack of true sympathy pricked his ire.  He conspired to envision her mock demise in his head.  Stretched and stripped on a rack, he vigorously lashed at her with a whip, raising welts and blood—

     Whoa!  Where did that come from?  He shook his head, jostling loose the absurd debris.  He slipped out of his shorts and into the shower, unexpectedly aroused by the perverse fantasy: the descent into sadism. 

     “Oh,” started Stacy, eyes drawn to his sudden intrusion and beaming erection.  “I don’t think there’s enough room in here for the three of us,” she said, trying to regain her composure.  Roger pulled her close and kissed her hard, her slick, soapy body teasing his flesh.  The bar of soap slipped from her grasp.  Composure would have to wait.

#

     The memory of the morning lingered in his thoughts throughout the day.  Not the shower sex, though it had been quite inspired, but the peculiar prelude.  The mental retreat into bondage and discipline had touched him in a way he would never have thought possible.  He contemplated long on the subject, realizing that the key for him was not so much the infliction of pain as the tantalizing theft of her mobility, her freedom; she was rendered less than slave.  The quintessential piece of meat; more an object than a human, an object he could use, abuse, pleasure, or punish at his own discretion.  He’d always thought himself a straight arrow when it came to sex, never deviating from the established norm.  Fantasies, especially something of this extreme nature, had never played a major role in his canon of mental stimuli--he was plenty aroused by the promise of flesh to even consider such macabre inventions.  And yet…

     He scratched for reasons: despite feelings to the contrary, maybe he was bored. One year with the same woman (and monogamous, too), this was definitely his longest relationship to date.  Maybe his body and brain craved something else.  He deliberated the possibility of having an affair to abate his desires but ended up batting that option right out of the ballpark.  Stacy was all he’d ever wanted from a woman: intelligence, humor, and a body to melt Antarctica.  A superficial want, but nonetheless, one he catered as necessary.   

     So what was the deal?

     Through the compounding confusion, he aligned the possibility of adding some spice to his sex life, seasoning it with a pinch of bondage.  He stared at the pencil he was tapping on his desk, entranced by the clockwork rhythm and stunted pendulum swing, oblivious to Miss Crockett’s buzzing, his concentration a prisoner, shackled by shadows in limbo, impervious to anything but the tap tap tapping tick tock tick tock tick tock--

     And just as abruptly the insistence of the buzzing, a call from the real world pulled him back from his mental hiatus.  He punched her in.

#

     As they undressed for bed, Stacy moved in and pressed against him, raising goose bumps and a twitch in his loins. 

     “What got into you this morning, stud?”

     Roger played the idiot.  “What do you mean?”

     Stacy harrumphed.  “You know exactly what I’m talking about.  Don’t play dumb with me.”

     Roger implied innocence and ignorance through a façade of wide-eyed naiveté.

     “Oh, you weren’t playing?”

     Their unabashed laughter confirmed their genuine contentment in each others’ company.  Contentment was swiftly banished by the wily maneuverings of lust.  They kissed, a fusion of mouths and tongues that further enlightened nerve endings, appealing to the erogenous fleshscapes their bodies presented.  Unbeknownst to himself, more as a reaction than an action, Roger held Stacy’s wrists tight against her sides.  A surge of animal aggression, of something primal, surfaced to dictate the path of the evening’s endeavor, a more physical manifestation of the fantasy that had coaxed him to arousal this morning.  Roger’s hands secured her wrists behind her, his fingers locked like fleshy handcuffs.  She struggled, but in earnest her struggling only served to enhance her anticipation, as evidenced by the plying of her lips and legs.  He worked her toward the bed, shifting her immobile arms from behind to above; their bodies tumbled in a heap of tangled flesh.  He rubbed the meat of his thigh against her moistness; her legs embraced him, demanding more than feeble flirtations.  She wanted nothing less than the full embodiment of his passion in her.  Roger promptly fulfilled her desperate gesticulations, and yet felt as if he could do as he pleased.

     Or could he?

     There was something deeper that drove him, an internal chain of command that seemed most elusive, evading his conscious prying by dipping him in and out of conscious control; he was driven to perform, but not totally of his own volition.   His muscles clenched, his will lapsed, fluctuating between his rule and the subversive inclinations of…something else.  It did not hinder his mobility, the act of which he was indelibly bound, but it escorted him for seconds and minutes to a mind stripped of character, an ebony wasteland--a fugue state--that, despite its scoured, lifeless soul, he found rather intriguing … when he slipped back to conscious control.

     (tick tock tick tock tick tock tick…)

     Well into the morning they finally ceased and slumped together, sweaty and spent.  Sleep was swift to upend them.

#

     If joy was a part of the progression their insect bodies would have danced a jig; instead, they lit on Roger’s ear and pillow, flitted above his head, and danced with determination.  They’d evolved, but that evolution was hinged on a purpose.  Somehow they’d learned and understood the sublevels of communication, of language, of manipulation; but they were insects, and as insects there was only one objective they harbored as important, only one conceivable obligation any purpose could hold.  The insect world’s politics and proclivities are geared toward the simple cadences of instinct and urge; of survival.  In their world, survival meant food.

     Dance they would, until it was time to dine.

#

     What followed was a sojourn into the heart of carnal depravity; an odyssey of saliva, sweat, semen, and strength.  It was an excursion into the musky loins of sexual obsession, sexual addiction. 

     Before, their sex had been satisfying, or so they thought.  Now it was necessary, Stacy’s wanton aspirations transforming her into the perfect whore.  Roger was outwardly her equal, but inside … oblivious--but driven.  They were selfish, unapologetic in their individual quests, not for the imminent orgasm, but for the one that followed.  And so forth.  The circle spun tighter, each feeding off the other’s ecstasy, always wanting more.  

     Sex had become a pure, visceral religion of which they worshipped with uncompromising fervor.  Their pulpit was a mattress adorned with stained, drenched sheets.  They explored a vast array of sexual deviations, all within the shameless sanctuary of their condo, much to the delight of leering, salivating gods.  Their meshing was flagrant, aggressive by design, forsaking caution in the clinch.  Fingernails, teeth, bruises (hickeys discreetly hidden now creeping above collars and below hemlines), spanking, hitting; anatomical acrobatics better left unsaid.

     And there had been…light bondage.

     A prelude of things to come: a culmination of insect insistence.

#

     (tick tock tick tock tick tock tick…)

     Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, ThursdayFridaySaturdaydaydayTuesdaydaydayFridaydaydayday--the days had lost their importance, had in fact lost their individuality.  They were to be endured, running on the exhaust of reflex motions to give an air of effort while Roger and Stacy recharged their mental and physical batteries.  But when darkness dripped they lapped it as if it were an elixir, revitalizing their souls and the impetus therein.  The endless nights continued, their existence defined by the fathomless forays into total sex.

     (tick tock tick tock tick tock     …)

     It happened swiftly, a natural step up the ladder of their ever expanding repertoire.  Stacy didn’t mind in the least when Roger gagged and bound her spread-eagled to bedposts and frame to better facilitate his assault, his desecration; crucified for the watchful gods dancing in the shadows.

     A sacrifice.

     (tick tock tick tock tick          …)

     The walls shifted, sprang to life, a miasma of insect activity and agility cultivating the improbable.  They fluttered and danced, engulfing Roger’s head in a swarming fugue both inside and out.  Revulsion knotted at Stacy’s throat but she managed to ebb the flow before it reached the silk scarf stuffed in her mouth, her face awash in shock and disgust.  The scene before her teetered on madness: the walls had, in their own strange way, carried out the function she had curtailed, vomiting insects from the paint and pores, nooks and crannies, wrenching them from unseen mouths.  Ominous shadows, deeper than the night, convulsed

     (tick tock tick tock               …)

     into life.  Her nakedness, her complete nakedness, the flesh in which she found refuge and expressed passions, was laid open for the whim of whomever or whatever wished to trespass.  Under these conditions all the headway she had made disclaiming inhibitions crumbled by the wayside; she felt dirty, obscene, and very vulnerable.  She caught a glimpse of the glimmer in Roger’s eyes amidst the tumultuous black cloud, like a motel’s neon declaration of the heart and conduct within its leering walls: vacant.  She almost thought he was blind.  Or worse…

     Roger rose from his perch on her, the mosquitoes crackling with intensity, weaving frenetic currents around him.  In the darkness

     (tick tock tick                     …)                       

     that had become their cohort in corruption, Stacy could vaguely make out the astonishing commotion addressing Roger.  She watched him listlessly slip into his jeans, a shirt, and sneakers, his movements the antithesis of the swirling turbulence.  Terror embellished her as futility settled in.  She was helpless, made to watch Roger’s trance-induced pantomime, as if he was

     (tick tock                         …)                          

     hypnotized, brainwashed, under foreign influence, his control…gone.

     (tick                              …)    

     He left.

     Death would have been kinder.

     (                                  …)

#

     The harsh fluorescent lights bled into the gloom, pulsing ever brighter; layers of light peeled away the darkness like idle fingers picking at a scab.  Disorientation meandered in to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, not willing to relinquish its transient existence yet.  His initial thoughts were of searing discomfort, followed by a roll-call of questions.  Where was he?  How did he get here?  What was he doing here?  Where’s Stacy?  His heart pounded furiously, his blood surged.  He squinted, eyes adjusting.  He was parked on a nondescript side street.  On the passenger seat was a half empty box of chocolate donuts, an unopened bag of tortilla chips, and a six-pack of generic beer, of which three were drained.  He remembered the inspiration for none of this. 

     He raised his arm toward his face but his wrist was oddly naked; he never left the condo without his watch.  He glanced toward the dashboard, eyes still blurry, finally focusing on the digital clock there.      

     4:35 a.m.  Where had all the time gone?

     What was going on?

     Urgency implored haste.  He had to get back to the condo, had to get some answers.  He pressed the pedal floor-bound and screeched from the curb, scattering the refreshments from their roost in the passenger seat.  He didn’t care.  He had to get home, had to get there soon.

#

     The door was unlocked.  That was the first sign that something was amiss.  He never left without locking the door.  He rubbed his bare wrist, reminding himself that normal routines had obviously been abandoned, or perhaps altered.

     Injury.  The word raced to the forefront of his sensory inquisition upon entering the condo.  The place seemed moist with frenzy; something had happened here, something out of the ordinary.  The stench was not death, but it was pungent along the same lines.

     He called out Stacy’s name.  The frenzy hesitated.  He heard, felt, distinctly perceived hesitation.  Something was very wrong. 

      In the bedroom.

     He paced toward the open bedroom door, aware of the nausea rumbling in his gut.  But he had to go on.  Without as yet seeing her, he knew Stacy was hurt.  Raped?  Possibly, but he sensed much more.  He could taste it in the air, thick as phlegm, clotting his throat.  The input he was receiving was totally alien.  But he had to go on.  If Stacy was injured (a foregone conclusion), he must help.

     The doorway was a passage into the gruesome, the surreal: a Gigeresque portrait of sensuality and disease; a rift in reality.  But in this case the sensuality was a memory.

     And this was not a painting.

     His throat constricted from the putrid sight and smell, unable to scream or comprehend; a low gurgling moan passed his lips: the whine of the mentally defeated.  He wanted desperately to repudiate the lies his vision enforced; the lies his vision brandished as he entered the bedroom.

     Hundreds, maybe thousands, of mosquitoes filled the whole of his sight, some in flight, some resting…some feasting.

     On Stacy.

     She was bound to the bed, gagged with some indecipherable material.  Somehow, sifting through the debris of coherent thought, Roger remembered being responsible for her imposed restrictions.  But not the rest.

     No way.

     Stacy’s body was mutilated beyond recognition.  He only knew it was her because this was their condo, this was their bed.  Any traces of the woman he loved were buried under a range of volcano-like mounds, layers of flesh infected and swelling from their excavations.  And still the mosquitoes drank from the frayed edges, dipping into freshly hollowed cavities, some perched in circles and sucking from a particularly potent well while others continued with fresh digs, like drilling for oil.  Of paramount interest to the mosquitoes was her blood engorged vagina; triggered by her earlier arousal, it was an alluring delicacy for their voracious appetites.

     Roger’s legs wobbled, but he steadied himself with an influx of adrenaline strength.  The fatter, feeding mosquitoes, the atrocious coat of which Stacy was adorned, paused.  A message was relayed: the watchers turned their attention toward Roger.  They started to flutter madly, to dance, a convoluted choreography of insect cunning.  When the feeders joined in, Roger felt it.

     A tug.

    A trapdoor in his mind swung open but he flailed and somehow caught himself before sliding down the dark throat into a seething, cavernous belly of blackness.  Still, it yawned wide below him, extending ever wider, pushing to the limits his grasp on what he beheld as concrete as well as the rim he gripped with the memories of clammy fingers--slipping, slipping.  Rough tongues caressed him, but still he managed to cling to reality.

     In the bedroom he stumbled forward, fighting, reaching out as in his head he fought to divert his descent.  His fingers, for the tiniest sliver of an instant, touched Stacy’s bloated foot.  Her leg twitched, a reaction to the uncommon intrusion of her nerve endings as opposed to the repetitious pin-pricking assault that had grown familiar, rolling from right to left.

     She was still alive.

     Injury, not death.  That is what he had sensed.  Rape?  Yes, a rape of her core humanity by these heinous circumstances. 

     Roger fell…into the fugue, swallowed, a conscious as well as subconscious surrender, down, down, down into the ebony wasteland.  The supervision of his self, his own core humanity--disintegrated.

     His. World. Went. Black.

#

     Roger listened as they dictated their ruthless orders.  He listened and understood and was beyond dissention.  He marveled at the audacity they had embraced to achieve their goal, the full extent of their evolution.  They were his elixir, the embodiment of the darkness that he (and Stacy, poor Stacy) had savored.  The bitter elixir.

     They.

     The mosquitoes.

     He also knew what they wanted, what they demanded, as dictated by the diabolical machinations of their dance.                                       

     More.

 

***

 

Delightful, eh?  :-)

 

Was going to post the cover of the issue of Wicked Hollow "Mosquito Dance" appeared in, but blogger is being funky, so can't upload anything at the moment.  Alas...
 

Vox Terrae: My Weird Occult Horror Chapbook From Dunhams Manor Press

The original title for Vox Terrae was The Alternative Translation. This translation is the foundation for the surreal horror that fills the final third of the tale.  The initial tale started taking shape a few years ago and had reached a dead end. I knew what I wanted to do, or what the tale wanted me to do, but was not prepared properly to deal with it as it needed to be dealt with.  Worse yet, though a necessary part of the process with this tale, was my desire to graft a section from a much older tale, Welcoming The Hell Machine, onto the major transformative/revelatory/utter madness sequence in the tale.  The aforementioned final third. Which caused another dead end.  Fast forward to late summer 2014 and my getting to know Dynatox Ministries, especially the Dunhams Manor Press imprint, and realizing if I could finish this damn thing, it might work well for this excellent small press publisher.  I had had a previous submission accepted (Dandelions), though they had cut it close and perhaps overlapped in the submission timeline. My inspiration to Take This Beast Down led me to dig in hardcore and knock it out. Amid a furious spell of late summer writing, I was able to find the way through the descriptive mayhem toward the grim finale.

An aside: I had written a blog about Dandelions in September and realized soon thereafter my timeline was way off with the origin of that tale.  I remembered a friend who passed away in 2005 or 2006 who had raved about the ending of that one, his favorite of my work. That would put Dandelions origin date perhaps five years earlier than expected, though it had gone through tweaking and shaping all throughout its path to publication.

Another aside: files. I have lots of stories in motion. Many of us do. I lose track in some cases of when a story originated.  Time flies, truly flies.  Some tales are swift to come, taking a week or so, usually a month or three through the whole process.  But others...they start, you know in many cases they might just sit and you'll steal from them for something else--hence, what I did with Welcoming The Hell Machine--while others, like The Alternative Translation/Vox Terrae, you know what's there is good, you just need to find the path or gain the skills to carry it to conclusion.

Anyway...

Here's a little blurb I whipped up to accompany this tale. 

"Rumor was Lorraine Blackthorne had written an alternative translation to notorious necromancer Alessandro Vernielli’s infamous 1841 tome of the black arts, Vox Terrae--The Voice of the Earth.  In a bleak house shadowed by a forest in northern California, occult researchers Kenneth and Ivan discover the translation in question moves beyond words and into pure experience.

Curiosity can lead to harrowing consequences.

Kenneth’s partner, Alicia, already knows this much…"

I've got a fascination with words and language and them being 'living things.' The title story to my collection, Autumn in the Abyss, touches on this.  I can see it cropping up in another tale or three in motion, especially one called...what the hell is it called? "Eouem Cumkpaa."  Yeah...er...that one.

Curious...

Here's the link for Vox Terrae. Limited to 50 copies.  Time is of the essence.  :-)

Lovely cover below. Including insects...