The Dark Is Light Enough For Me.

About time, eh?  The Dark is Light Enough for Me is my debut collection of Dark Fiction tales, most of it Horror, some of it surreal and strange…well, okay, more than some of it is strange.  All of the stories explore the shadowy edge of the human condition laid bare.  I don’t flinch.  I don’t back away.  I’m going to shine a flashlight on the madness, the emotional turmoil, the dread and love and wonder, scratching the impressions on my flesh with ragged fingernails, to be transferred to the computer once the blood dries…

Sounds like fun, eh?  Oh, really!?  You try deciphering the scars!  ;-)

Anyway, on 11-11-11=11+1 (yes, twelve) stories will be available from Ampichellis books, an ebook by moi, with a possible print version as well (fingers crossed, I want that), for your reading pleasure, or simply to make you look at me with wary disgust.  Their site is under construction, updating and such.  The cover artwork is in progress.  I’ll hit you with that once it’s finalized.  The price is going to be a measly $4.99 [something invisible thumps my head, probably the fist of the publisher; get it right, boy!].  Excuse me, only $3.99 which is, what?  About 33 cents per story!  What a deal!  (Okay, okay, I’m not a salesman, but man, that is a good deal for twelve slices of dread, with our without anchovies, depending on…er...ahem, okay, no anchovies.)

;-)

How about a Table of Contents to whet your bloodthirsty appetite?  Here goes:

1. Black Wings
2. The Dark Is Light Enough For Me
3. Gladiatrix
4. I Wish I Was A Pretty Little Girl
5. I Want To Take You Higher
6. Not Breathing
7. Make Pretty
8. Strange Trees
9. The Perceptive One
10. Plastic
11. The Sunglasses Girl
12. Things That Crawl…In Hollywood.

Looks like fun to me.  Teasers and samples on the way.  Are you ready?

I Am! 

Bring on the Horror!

                          Bloody fingernails from all that scratching and writing...

Catching Up, Big News, and 11-11-11...

Been awhile since I’ve done a blog [checks how long, shakes head], but it’s time to lock in and make them regular. Why? Well, many reasons, but primarily because of an ebook collection coming out!

But first…let’s catch up a bit, a lot in the pipeline.

Sometime next week--it’s the 6^th of October as I type this--there will be an e-anthology of Halloween themed stories--not all horror--called, “Past the Patch,” put together by the talented horror writing fiend, Brian Fatah Steele. Looks like fun, and it includes my tale, “The Perfect Pumpkin.” Perfectly gruesome stuff, appropriate reading material for the spooky season.

Vincent Daemon’s new magazine, Grave Demand, "The Journal of Transgressive Thought in Literature & Culture," looks like it will specialize in no-holds-barred fiction and more that won't flinch.  Excellent! One of my personal fave short stories I’ve written, “Broken Teacup,” is included. Gnarly, messed up, you’ll be thinking, my God, John Claude, these blokes are Just Wrong…but then, ahhhh, see, it goes off the rails and things are not as they seem and you end up realizing the story is about love. Or not. I remember reading a short story by John Everson, the title eludes me at the moment, but it had some truly evil lead character, and I was impressed by how by the end of the story, we were made to care about this character. That inspired this one a bit. Now, I don’t think caring about the narrator of "Broken Teacups" is the deal here, not exactly, but I enjoyed twisting it in a way where, well, you might care about his predicament. Or not. Either way, it’s a hardcore horror ride that doesn’t flinch, perfect for this new mag. Surreal, too, when it gets there.  Grave Demand will be out in October or November.  Worth investigating!

Then there’s what you’ve all been waiting for. Or not, haha…but on 11-11-11 I will have an ebook short story collection released--possibly a print version too, that would be great--entitled…um, well, we (the editor at Ampichellis ebooks and moi) are working on it. The original title was, The Dark is Light Enough For Me, a 9,200 word novelette of insidious perversion and self discovery that is featured in the collection. That still may end up being the title, but recently I was re-reading that story, proofreading a tad, tweaking as we writers do, and within that story, there’s mention of another book entitled, My Heart Belongs To Darkness, and it struck me how much I liked that title as well. Fickle me.  No, no, just...um... So, one of those, I’ll let you know soon, post cover art, the whole deal, teasers, samples, gonna have fun, shake up some interest. But it is coming. 11-11-11 = 11 + 1 stories (yes, that’s twelve, but I think I will play up the 11’s and 1 and, er…yeah, you get me, don’t you?).

Hmmm…

Anyway, time to strap in, we’re going for a ride into the heart of darkness. There’s no guarantee we’ll return…

;-)

                                          A broken teacup, of course. 

I Listen to the World Around Me.

A few weeks ago I was wandering with my girlfriend through the ancient ruins that constitute Hadrian's Villa in Rome.  The sights captivated, but as wonderful as the statues and massive buildings were, what really drew my attention was the trilling, sawing, LOUD tonalities pouring down from the tops of the trees.

The cicadas.

They were everywhere, in abundance.  They amazed, they enthralled... They inspired.

Though I'd had an idea for a novel which dealt with Percy Bysshe Shelley's most prized possession, I've known for a while more research was necessary for me to fully grasp what I wanted to do with that one or, if not more research, something, perhaps a sense of trust in the words I was putting down, and the characters.  I need to do this one, but sometimes there is a time when things must percolate longer to make the brew richer.

So, I listened to the cicadas' song and something started to take shape.  Something full of sex, drugs, rock 'n' roll, and cicadas, placed out above the volcanic lake of Nemi, outside of Rome.  I initially thought it straightforward, something of fun to do before leaping back into more serious stuff, though it is quite serious in its own way.  But then the world throws you gifts and something that seemed a fun idea that might end up a novelette or even novella, gets those special gifts: an agent I am working with had mentioned how in a lot of my short fiction the lead characters seem similar--this was after sending her a batch of stories in which this might be true; a second batch shook up some of her perceptions.  Having as yet not defined the main character in the cicadas piece, she—the character--chose to be female, which opened many doors to different perceptions.  I was officially off to the races.

Then, at about the same time as I did this, I checked up on cicadas for a piece o' info...and the revelations within my research bent this simple little horror story into something of weird, unexpected depth.  When this happened, I knew it was my brain doing that thing it does.

You see, I am not a fan of surface level horror.  I guess even when wanting to trek into that terrain, my brain won't allow easy resolutions.  What I have in the works now threatens to be a novel--we'll see, a short one, perhaps, but one nonetheless--and what it ultimately deals with has less to do with those damned cicadas, and more to do with...

Whoa!  Stop right there, John Claude.  Let's not give away all our secrets.

Let's just say, I listen to the world around me, which means I take in all possibilities.  When the possibilities veer into such surprising places, well, the rewards for myself and hopefully the reader are tenfold.  And the words are pouring out of me.

Now, if you don't mind, let me get back to the noisy buggers, 'kay?!   

Robert Plant and Trooper Ben.

I was going to post about the process of writing, of creativity, but I'll do that next time, which shouldn't be as long a break between posts now that I'm settled in Rome.

But now...

Thirty-four years ago I saw Led Zeppelin's last USA concert; it was my first concert.  Last night, I got to see Plant again, and his reformed Band of Joy.  They were in the middle of a bill headlined by Ben Harper and opened by an Italian band, good rockin' with a tweak of progressive music--the progressive being in some of the time signatures; they staggered that way, at least--called, Bastard Sons of...who was it? What Greek God?  Ah, well, don't remember and since I've already written this blog and lost it to cyberspace...moving on...

Ahem.

Plant and the Band of Joy hit the stage with a funky, groovalicious take on Led Zeppelin's, "Black Dog."  They did twelve songs in all, a hybrid of Nashville/bluegrass/Americana music that resonated with real potency.  Half the songs were Zep covers, more like highly reworked, re-interpreted takes that fit well with the other material.  I probably enjoyed a couple of songs I didn't know better than the Zep tracks, but it was all stellar, pristine, and wonderfully full of life.  Plant was having fun, his voice in fine form.  The band deserve major kudos, though, as their mesmerizing melding of instrumentation, building to bright crescendos before tumbling back down to stark intimacy, captivated.

Plant has garnered much respect from me over the last few years, continuing to grow musically, not simply grind out retread Zeppelin, oh, no.  He's an artist still opening his soul to new creativity.  Again, wonderful performance.

Ah, but when Ben Harper came out, he was greeted with a summer thurnderstorm; he will forever be known as Trooper Ben by me for his perseverance amidst less than ideal circumstances.  After two songs he had to leave the stage as monitors were pulled back from the rain drenched front of the stage, and wrapped in plastic.  His momentum and pacing were impaired throughout, yet he still punched through with some great music and moments.  My fave moment was when he did a song either inspired by or dedicated to The Blind Boys of Alabama (I don't know Harper's music well).  As he stepped precarously out to the rain slicked front of the stage, his mike went dead...yet he still wailed to the heavens, still gave it his all.  He did the best he could and gets a tip of the hat from me.

So, there's my quickie take on it, all in all a great night of music...with occasionally nasty weather.

Next time, yes, I will get back to words because, well...the cicadas demand it.

;-)

A Handful of Books...and Rome.

Off to Rome in a couple days, putting together the luggage, I don’t have a Kindle or related e-reader, so a handful or more of books will make their way with me, stuffed in between the underwear and shirts. A few, not exactly the Desert Island collection, but stuff that seems essential right now.

For example: my favorite Lucius Shepard book is, A Handbook of American Prayer, but that one’s going in storage, in one of the double handful of boxes I have here--yes, that’s all I have, 9 file boxes of stuff, 1 box for the computer, a couple of pieces of art, that’s it! A life in so few boxes, perhaps because so much of what matters to me is via my words, in my head, interpretations of memories, extrapolations of future paths altered from the real; seems I'm always downsizing, though it's less by choice and more by necessity. When I left Oregon a few years ago, I took what I could fit in the car. The rest of the stuff? Goodbye!

Or perhaps I'm just not into material things...hmmm...

Anyway, my point is, perhaps not the Desert Island collection selections, but Shepard's still represented on my journey with The Best of…and Viator Plus (which I’ve yet to read).

What else?

A smattering of darkness: both of Laird Barron’s collections, Joe Pulver’s Blood Will Have Its Season, Matt Cardin’s Dark Awakenings, Ballard’s (almost) Complete Short Stories, Barker's completely complete--ahem--Stealth version of The Books of Blood.

A few more…

Strange busy times, looking forward to Words Words Words in Rome: reading and writing, the minor revision tweaks of my second novel (primarily condensing two chapters into one and some nips and tucks otherwise), as well as some short pieces in need of attention; there's also a bio of a famous poet that my girlfriend, Alessandra, and I will be writing. And my third novel, dealing with Percy Bysshe Shelley's most prized possession... And this blog! Oh, my...consistency, and lots of ellipses, eh? Gotta cut those out. Hmmm...
...
...

So, this quickie, touching base, saying hello, hope your world is running smoothly, and back to situating everything and letting the words stew in my head, awaiting release in another time zone.

;-)

Books, clothes, and the...essentials...

Shuffling Boxes with Brighter Death Now.

Very busy shuffling boxes around and snorting dust, writing’s been lean for a couple weeks, though I’m of the mindset to wrap up a couple short pieces, a couple poems, and do the tweaking revisions for the second novel, The Wilderness Within; it doesn’t need much, but I want it all done now!

But as we all know, sometimes life gets in the way…

So…

I’ve mentioned Brighter Death Now a few times in my fiction, I even have a story, “I Wish I Was A Pretty Little Girl”--one of the handful of best short stories I’ve as yet written, a warped (of course, what with a title like that), surreal excursion into deeply scarred psychological terrain--which tweaks the title of one of their noisy death industrial tracks, “I Wish I Was a Little Girl.”

What? Oh, yes, I am warped as well.

Here’s a review of the CD that song appears on and, yes, a you tube clip of the song for your listening, um…pleasure? Displeasure? Curiosity at least.

Enjoy!

BRIGHTER DEATH NOW
May All Be Dead (Cold Meat Industry)
:A power electronics annihilation of the soul:
"I make no subscription to your paradise!" Distorted and raging, the statement defines where Cold Meat Industry ambassador of death and degradation, Roger Karmanik (BDN), stands with the CD release of this 2 LP set from early 1999. It bursts from my speakers, having been grafted on to the beginning of the first track of this sordid collection (re-recorded here, the original version was included on the bonus 7" that the lucky few received with the LPs). With grinding insistence, "I Hate You" commences. The seething machinery throb and clipped vocal attack of this track, doused in spite and portioned out in rapid fire repetitious, chain-link succession ("I hate, I hate, I hate, I hate…"), drags the listener, screaming, through the deluge of true vehemence. What follows, adorned in repetition and smelling of the sewage of the sick-minded, sonically and thematically, annihilates the soul. There's "I Wish I Was A Little Girl" and its sadistic fantasy fulfillment amidst the weary, piston driven machinery rumble and squeal. The diseased noise belch upon which a psychotic stalker/killer fantasy is played out during "Behind Curtains." The monotonous decay of self during the existence as excrement fantasy that is "Payday." "Oh What A Night," twisting lifelessly among the bloodied sheets of caustic noise that unveil the morning after death fantasy. And the immoral finale, disintegrating into the perverse clutches of the schoolyard fantasy that unfolds during "Fourteen," amidst machines that flutter and plod forth in search of depraved gratification. Throughout this exploration of Roger's mental abattoir, each track, like the fantasy it portrays, externalizes the mentally corrupt worldview that a world gone mad inspires. Because Roger's paradise is the warped fantasy presented here, on May All Be Dead. Insidious in ways most cannot comprehend. -JC Smith

Riffing on a New Master: Laird Barron

Gonna riff on Laird Barron, the finest new writer of horror fiction to come along in a couple decades at least, because I’ve been wanting to write something about him for a while, and, since my brain is wired that way right now, kind of a stream-of-consciousness need to say something, well…let’s see what pours out.

Laird Barron, demonic genius or simply giggling madman? His stories pack such wallop as to knock the willing reader sideways, slipping into his lair of grim damnation, where ancient forces toy with us--humans--because we deserve the toying; where forever stretches not only forward, but behind us, the rear view mirror cluttered with oily tendrils and lunatic aspirations, and sprinkled with the sick glee of those in pursuit.

Resonance in horror fiction is often risible, the foundations for many tales lack depth, substance that resonates beyond the page. Barron, on the other hand, the other one, or the other one, the one holding the bloodied pen or smearing grue on the keyboard, packs his stories with such fathomless depth as to dip us in the viscous substance and allow it to seep into our pores.

This resonance has teeth.

This resonance perseveres…

His characters face horrors that transcend not just time and space, but perception. Reality caters to no laws. The deep hallucinatory vibe that paints many of his stories in the blackened hues of the dead rainbow snuggles into the brainpan and prods with insistence.   

Anything is possible.

That’s always been my primary guideline when writing fiction: anything is possible. Clive Barker once wrote, “I forbid my mind nothing.” Well, Barron’s taken it a few steps--or light years--beyond even that. His mind is a place of rare brilliance, peering in on monstrosities not only of the flesh, be it alien and disturbing, though still human--mutations or weird evolution, depending on perception, leer from the nooks and crannies and dark pockets of his world--but of mind’s twisted in such ways as to allow these monstrosities room to roam freely. The psychological nuances--though often with the minds scarred from being witness to that which no longer lurks in the shadows, but has slunk out into view, to shake one's hand--pack unnerving ooomph that we all can relate to in some human way.

Read “Hallucinogenia,” “Mysterium Tremendium,” “The Imago Sequence,” The Forest,” “The Broadsword,” “Old Virginia"--read them all!  The impact for me was profound. I heard bells tolling; I sensed the malicious chords being strummed; the music was dissonant and unnerving, yet I could not turn it off because it was in my head now, the external force of the words finding a fresh mind to corrupt.

His words sang to me and I listened, oh yes: I willingly paid the price…

That’s what I get with much of Barron’s work, this sense of a fullness of imagination, of every sense gathered in union, participation; of being pushed to new and unexplored terrains within the mind. But as with Lovecraft and Barker and a few others before him, Barron’s able to inspire such strange dread I cannot resist its lure; my mind is opened as an chasm, wanting to be filled with his pitch black tales.

So, I read on. And On.

The work resonates because it does not depend on that which came before. It may be imbued with it, of course, but writers like Lovecraft, Barker and Barron pay fierce attention to their own ideals, their willingness to not only look under the sheet we’ve pulled up to our eyeballs, but to play with whatever lurks there, to get to really know and understand it on a level most writers simply cannot imagine. His personal history amidst the wilderness--he used to run the Iditarod and has noted his youth in Alaska was harsh, filled with extreme poverty and worse--plays a key role in his getting the vibe right, getting it real.  Here's a link to an interview in which he outlines some of the rough times:
http://booksaremyonlyfriends.blogspot.com/2010/01/more-questions-with-laird-barron.html

Or perhaps the work resonates because writers of that ilk have got better style, man. 

Barron’s got two books out so far, The Imago Sequence & Other Stories , and, Occultation and Other Stories. They are not simply recommended, they are mandatory reading!

A hundred years and more from now, when historians specializing in Horror look back, they’ll note the masters--Poe, Lovecraft, Blackwood, Clark Ashton Smith, Barker, etc., and near the top of that list will be Laird Barron. Why? Because he’s that good. We are lucky to be present as his work unfolds. Trust me on this, buy those two books and look forward to what follows with deep anticipation because Barron’s the real deal. Barron’s work is timeless; Barron's work is classic.

Okay, well, that's me crackin' open the noggin' and letting what's inside pour across the keyboard.  Ragged but fun, I hope and, again, be sure to check out his work. You will not be disappointed.