A Book Review: Stagger Bay by Pearce Hansen. Full Hardcore Immersion.

Well, been a long time since I've written a book review.  Only written a handful in my life.  Oh, I used to write way too many music reviews.  It took over my headspace and got in the way of my fiction writing for many years.  I still do them on rare occasion, but know I cannot let reviews of any sort get in the way of the writing, BUT it is a good way to get some words down in a different way and I'm all for expanding my use and knowledge of writing.  I dabble in many forms, short fiction to long fiction, novels, poetry, literary horror and magic realism, erotica and simply strange stuff.  Wherever the characters demand to go. 

So...

Here's my first book review in eons, it seems, possibly a bit clunky, but let me work it out as I get back into them and I will feature more as I go along.  Something else to be added to the blog mix.

Anyway, this one's for Stagger Bay by Pearce Hansen, a writer of real talent working some street-level noir with real kick. Here goes:

***

The other reviews here will tap more into the story, a wild ride for street-wise Markus, a man who has moved beyond the lure of the streets yet that knowledge and wisdom is still embedded deep within his psyche and soul.  False imprisonment and a sudden release lead to revelations about that imprisonment that include some wrenches thrown in the mix in the form of a serial killer known as The Driver, yet it all comes together by the end.  Add to this Hansen’s penchant for off-hand violence with such visceral force—the first such scene in an elementary school is visually stunning and ends with a perfect sacrifice that engages the reader emotionally amidst the bloodshed and, yes, it is very visual as I can already picture this and more here cinematically—when I say it’s a wild ride, I suggest you strap in when you read it.

But what matters for me here is the writing.  So many people who call themselves writers nowadays should go back to selling shoes or laying concrete.  I need that something extra, something that crackles, to lure me in and keep my interest. I am a critical reader and this one thing forces me to put down many books for the sheer lack of real fire and talent.   Hansen comes fully-loaded, wielding metaphor and description as the best Wordsmith Masters such as Lucius Shepard, Elizabeth Hand, and Laird Barron do, though his focus is well apart from theirs.  But, as with them, he brings that extra something I speak of that keeps me reading, involved, such vivid pictures painted with words one is immersed in the story, not just reading it.  Though in stating the pictures as “vivid,” the tonal quality is dipped deep in the grey truths of real life, not simple black and white: the good are bad, the bad are good or at least the mix is always in question. 

And Hansen knows his territory well.  Funny, but when I read the opening pages of Stagger Bay I had a couple odd impressions shaped by Markus’ reaction to his situation: one, there was a sense of detachment, but not detached; what I mean is, despite circumstances out of his hands, there was the cold understanding of the prison cell running in his veins, keeping him in check when it might seem fighting back would be the normal modus operandi for most writers to use in this situation; Hansen approached it from a different angle, one completely honest to his character.  And two, I was made to think of Joe Lansdale, a pertinent comparison, as both writers know their environment on levels that only one immersed within it can know: one can smell the grease and blood, the sweat and anxiety, sense the nerves twitchy and alive, never resting, never turned off for Hansen’s Markus.  Reading an interview with Hansen a few weeks ago only confirmed my perception that he knows the streets well, first-hand.  It’s a part of who he is and this familiarity raises the tale a few notches above the norm.

Sure, there are some slippery bits here and there and me being critical, I find giving five stars left only for perfection, but this clocks in at four and a half, for sure, and there’s no tag for that, so I’m happy to give it five and recommend it highly for anybody looking to immerse (!!!) themselves in a tale that pulls you down into the trenches and doesn’t let go. 

***

So, there ya go, and here's the link to the Amazon page because, heck, if I read that review, I'd pick it up.  How about you?

http://www.amazon.com/Stagger-Bay-ebook/dp/B006ZW650Q/ref=sr_1_3?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1332722623&sr=1-3

The review's up there as well, along with others to pique your curiosity.

Next time?  Well, the ideas spinning in my head include something on Cronenberg, Gurrilla Blues (huh?  Oh, you'll find out soon!), more about my collection, The Dark Is Light Enough For Me, perhaps sampling deeper into the stories, upcoming stories elsewhere, flash fiction, perhaps samples of the novels...and this and that and we will see...

Here's the cover art for Hansen's book:  Gritty, eh?  Mysterious, too.

Enjoy!

Beginnings: First Sentence & First Paragraph Madness.

"The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel."--William Gibson, Neuromancer.

I love that first sentence and am immediately hooked when reading it.  I want to know more: where is this place, what characters will we find there?

I've been thinking about first sentences recently, first paragraphs, and how we as writers should hook the readers early; yeah, stating the obvious.  I have a tendency to build, but also like to set a mood, state something vital, with my first sentences or paragraphs--mostly paragraphs, as I go through some samples for this post it became clear I'm a first paragraph(s) kind of writer--yet that vital element may not be obvious until one makes it deep into the story. I wonder, let's look at a few first sentences from projects either completed--the two novels or stories from the collection, The Dark is Light Enough for Me--or stuff in progress--a novel, a handful of other pieces I know I want to complete sooner than later, and see if I have succeeded.  So...without further adeiu:

From The Corner of His Mind, my first novel:

     "It was faint, a whisper more in Trent Alexander’s head than in his ears, a sound reminiscent of so many voices he had known in his life, yet pure and untouched by any memories he could recall.  He thought it had said, “Hello, Trent,” more a mumble, vague and unformed; a muffled introduction.  The voice projected as if from a distance, though it seemed much closer than it would like to let on. 

     As if it had risen from within." 

Now, for me, that works, but it's not a grab you around the scruff of your neck kind of works, it's a hinting at something kind of works.  And, since I know exactly what the novel does, these opening four sentences say So Much More Than It Would Seem, yet as with most of my fiction, the rewards are in the journey and final revelations. 

What do you make of that?  Will you read on, to see where it goes?

With the next example, I remember simply wanting to leap in, write something that just blasts out of the gate with a first line to grab you immediately.  How about this, from the novel in progress, tentatively titled, The Mantra of Metamorphosis.

     "Reverend Bob was naked and on the roof again."

Yeah, okay, what the heck is going on here?  A reverend?  On the roof?  Naked?   Do you want to know more?

My second novel, The Wilderness Within, opens with a prologue; yes, a dreaded prologue--don't shake your head--but it's one that ends up wrapping around to the ending in a most profound way.  Before I knew my agent was an agent--a long, strange internet story that includes poodles, penguins, our dark family history and, um...er...much more perversion that would make an interesting story in and of itself--I told her, you have to read the whole thing, there's a purpose to Everything and I mean Everything.  She told me afterwards Every Writer says that, says, you have to read the whole thing, blah, blah, but this novel was the first time that it was true: the revelations were worth the build-up and bizarre trip.

     It wasn’t the wind that awakened me.  I’d grown accustomed to its mysterious habits, the fluid rhythms of its rhyme and reason.  It came in waves, surging up to the shore of my house, whistling along the wooden walls and jangling windowpanes.  It would rattle about, only to recede into the emptiness from whence it came.  Not like this other sound.  The sound that awakened me lingered, insistent: Here I am, ready or not.

     I’d been patient.  I was ready.

     This other sound buzzed and crackled and breathed deep as the fathomless space between me and out there--

     The forest.  

Are you curious?  Has that set the mood properly? 

Let's move on to some short fiction, a few from my collection that you all should buy now, especially when you can see via Amazon the print version is on sale for $9.32, while the digital version, hey, it's only $3.99 which calculates to (takes off shoes to assist) about 33 cents a story. 
http://www.amazon.com/Dark-Light-Enough-Me-ebook/dp/B0065M28L6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1320955068&sr=8-1

Here's the opening paragraph from I Wish I Was A Pretty Little Girl. 

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. 

Does that make you uncomfortable?  The intent is to do that, yet again, by the end of the story, many people comment how we can feel sympathy for this character who, in essence, is a specified serial killer.  When I wrote that line, I knew I was asking a lot of some readers and that I would probably lose some in the process; at least some for that story.

Hmmm...a couple more, just rolling here.

From The Sunglasses Girl:

The thought of sex with anonymous women had, before the disintegration of marriage and the accompanying mental instability, never ventured into Trane’s rapidly deteriorating psyche. 

I like that.  A curious stage is set, where's the writer going to take it?  And there's sex, something that always seems to attract attention.  Since I write very adult fiction, yeah, this totally draws me in.

A few more sentences, how do they work for you?

From Black Wings:
After only a month, I’d had enough. 

From I Want To Take You Higher:
The knock at the door could only mean one thing: Desi was here, with the drugs no less, not that I could really deal with any more right now, but why stop anything of such mind-numbing, reality altering magnitude when it’s got the pedal jammed to the floor?

From Not Breathing:
When it happened, I remember not feeling anything, just disconnected from the world, or at least from being human. 

Are you intrigued or...?

How about one from a story I completed today?  Here's the first sentence from Ring Finger:

Cammie sucked hard on the rolled cigarette, the smoke threatening to warm her frigid innards, but failing. 

Enough of this.  See, as I go through all of these it's quite clear how it's all a matter of our individual make-up as to what will draw us into a story.  I'm not a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am kind of writer.  Well, not most of the time.  I like many stories that do that, but as many or more that drape me in a mood and crawl under my skin.  A lot of my fiction works in this way.  The reader has to have a willingness to go along for the ride.  Many of the writers I really enjoy do similar things.  They've staked their turf, they've set Their Playing Field and, since they know what they are doing, I will go along for the ride no matter what the beginning is, but even at that, it's usually intriguing. 

I just have to work hard to get to their level so no matter what that first sentence is, the reader will know it's going to lead to some pretty strange places they want to explore with me.

So, not clarifying anything but, as I noted up there with my fiction, I hope it was an amusing ride...


Here's a couple more of my faves, a paragraph from Lucius Shepard's A Handbook of American Prayer, one of my all-time fave novels.  You can access the first pages via the Look Inside feature.  I remember reading the opening paragraphs in Powell's books in Portland, Oregon, and being completely captivated by the intent, the ideas, the writing.  I had to know more. 
http://www.amazon.com/Handbook-American-Prayer-Novel/dp/1568582811

And a final first sentence here from another of my all-time favorite novels, Crash by J.G. Ballard.
Vaughan died yesterday in his last car-crash.

Which sounds like a final sentence! Egad!

I hope Bill Lee from David Cronenberg's take on William Burrough's Naked Lunch has a perfect first sentence aligned, otherwise, I wouldn't like to witness that typewriter's reaction to his failure.  :-P

Merzbow: Dark NOISE + New Interview Up!

Because I am rather brain-fried, tired, yet still want to get a new blog posted, here goes.  First of all, here's a link to Nerine Dorman's cool, This Is My World blog, in which yours truly has a fun interview.
http://nerinedorman.blogspot.com/2012/03/meet-john-claude-smith.html  Check it out when you get the opportunity.  Actually, go ahead and link up now, read it, and get back to me. And buy the book, oh, heck, here's the link for that, too:

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

You can also get back to me about that and...where was I? 

So, brain-tired, er, brain-fried, my brain wormed its way to the music reviews I have on file, many, many music reviews and I snagged five I had written for Merzbow, most of these in the late 1990's or possibly--I don't have the dates--the early 2000's.  Anyway, without further adieu and for your sonic impaling enjoyment, here's a few of the Merzbow reviews.  Even when trying to be serious, sometimes this kind of music demands the most, um...well...disgusting of humor to convey the, er...sometimes it...

Ahem.

Let's just say, it allows my brain to go to some raw, demented places--yeah, those of you with sensitive dispositions might want to leave now as there are a few images  here, within the descriptions of the music, you might not want branded on your gray matter--but ultimately quite fun.  I think...I think so, at least.  Then again, my take on fun might be a bit out there...

Enjoy!

***

MERZBOW--Hybrid Noisebloom

This week’s Merzbow release is an inspired affair, infested with a wide array of gurgling machine regurgitations that really keep the proceedings lively.  From the squiggly, circuit frying static transmissions of “Mouse Of Superconcetion” and, especially, “Minotaurus,” to the pounding, flapping, electri-amplified chirping speakers of ‘Neuro Electric Butterfly,” Hybrid Noisebloom is one of my favorite excuses for self-lobotimization, or at least a reasonable excuse for sticking a rusty coat-hangar in the right nostril and attempting to scratch the back of one’s eyeballs while fellating (?!) the tailpipe of a Harley.  Yummy! 

Merzbow--Aqua Necromancer

Expect the unexpected.  Masami Akita, corrupt mastermind behind the bound and gagged and tossed into the jet engine noise of Merzbow has, over the last couple of years, really begun to stretch the limits of what he sonically does.  Seems, with current releases (Tauromachine, Hybrid Noisebloom, 1930...), there has been more variety within the choppy slabs of noise that he designs; of course, one not into the aural bliss of pure noise might argue that it all sounds like somebody has driven a Harley into a cement mixer, set it on grind, and stuck a helmeted head into the fray, recording and observing...Anyway, what we have here is, quite possibly, the most varied Merzbow release to date.  Why?  Because, amidst the stalk and squeal noise, Masami has seen fit to add lots of trippy, sometimes jazzy, inherently odd, sampled beats from bands like Soft Machine and L’Orme.  Tracks like “Soft Drums” and “Contrapuntti Patto” are as much a product of the added beats as they are the usual Merzbow onslaught; the beats seem to have given Masimi direction and, more so, revealed a side to his noisetrations that can only be deemed psychedelic!  Yes, for all the noisicians who feel they are tapping into 60’s psychedelia while still pummeling us with the same monstrous (though fun) regurgitations, Aqua Necromancer is a mind-altering example of noise that can actually be called groovy.  Far out! 

MERZBOW--Tauromachine

If you follow the noise scene, you kinda know what to expect from a Merzbow release.  That said, Masami Akita (Merzbow) has been mixing things up a bit lately, adding more varied textures to his white noise tsunami.  There’s a lot more disjointed focus (direction...and then chaos), a fairly prominent throb (as if Masami is getting to the heart of the sonic deluge), and a wider tonal base (it’s not just an excuse to strap in and let the white noise corrode the eardrums).  “Cannibalism Of Machine” is a syncopated jumble of clipped machinery squeals and volatile, overdriven psycho-dynamics, straining speakers as the machine is devoured; “Soft Water Rhinoceros” takes water and fuses it with some truly cataclysmic sounds; “Minotauros” is prime low-grind throb interspersed with the tones of machines in distress; “Heads Of Clouds” takes a high-pitched oscillation and drowns it in a thirsty, deranged sonic riptide.  The whole disc is concentrated and quite well conceived, the songs lashing out with cobra venom ferocity.  Out of the 1,097,203 or so Merzbow releases to date, Tauromachine rates near the top.  Of course, it is noise, and that said, some people may prefer a battery acid enema to the joys of Merzbow...it’s all a matter of masochistic preference; me, I’ll take some of the Colonel’s extra crispy Merzbow over a scorched and screaming anus any day (though if you could record that, you might have a feel for some of what is going on here....).  (Yikes!)   

MERZBOW/GORE BEYOND NECROPSY--Rectal Anarchy

This disc reminds me of a tidbit I once got from a misfortune cookie: Merzbow say, “When one is to be anally fist-fucked by a ninja, it is not necessary to use lubricant for the glue and glass doused fist, as the blood and shit will suffice.”  Sonic sodomization of the grisliest kind.  Ouch, on all counts. 

MERZBOW/GENESIS P-ORRIDGE--A Perfect Pain                      

A Perfect Pain gathers the godfather of the noise/experimental branch of industrial, Genesis P-Orridge (Throbbing Gristle, Psychic TV), with the godfather of japanoise, Masami Akita (Merzbow).  The result is...psychotic.  Seems Merzbow has recently grown tired of the simple, sonic-inspired blunt force lobotomy (check out Aqua Necromancer on Alien8 for a prime slab o’ psychedelic noise); and Genesis, well, he’s just as eclectic as ever.  The five tracks here are spread out over 56 minutes, juxtaposing Merzbow’s underlying, turbulent ambience that occasionally erupts into frequency piercing, between-the-dials, high-squeal noistrations (be it rhythmic oscillations; clicking gyrations; looped, sampled percussion; or steel wool, scrubbed raw static), with Genesis’ acid-drenched, demented preacher vocalizations--processed and echoey, alit with drug-hazed (or is that brutally honest, reality-glazed?!) glee; the imperfect, scraped-off-the-cranial-tiles worldview lyrics (improvisations!) are the coup de grace, a subversive delight, a view from the tower of the (in)sane.  The vocal approach gives the illusion that this is what it’s like in Genesis’ head, the stream of consciousness, fractured perspective (or is that BRUTAL HONESTY...?!); the Merzbow input, underneath while Genesis rants and rambles, is littered with corruptions of sound, awaiting the opportunity to sonically rage.  Subcutaneous psychedelia that seeps in all the way to the soft gray matter, corrosive and friggin’ outrageous.  One of my favorite releases from either of these artists.  On Cold Spring  out of England, a label worth your attention. 

***

You've never heard Merzbow?  Well, let's rectify that.  Here's one of the first tracks I ever heard by them, him, him being Masami Akita.  Enjoy!  Enjoy?  Yeah, Enjoy!  

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

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."

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 no hookers—”

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

       I was smitten by this dyed blond bitch with a rockin’ shape and looking all nervous and shit.  If she’s hooking, it’s clear it’s not 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’t you see it?  Can’t you see her future, peering into the broken teacup and reading the tea leaves and there’s nothing left but this dismal existence…?”

     Lemmy pulled the car past her, into the Lucky grocery store parking lot.  I know I looked hard at her when we passed by, so obvious what she was doing.  The brakes squealed as we stopped and the car felt hot, like death and sex and more death 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 get her.  I’ll…do her.  I’ll give Mr. Liu everything he wants, and more.”

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

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

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

     I was love-struck, but my love was dangerous.  Everything about this damaged bitch had my balls tingling and my cock starting to strain in my jeans.

    I leaned out of the passenger side window, waved her over.  She was still looking at me; I saw an impression of a smile caress her lips, 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 thousand little 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.

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 

/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."

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 feels nothing: numb, empty…    

He resorts to cutting himself as an exercise in sensation, in trying to feel something at a time when he feels nothing. 

But even that does not break through.

He still feels nothing.

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

He did not care about how rude it came off.

He does not care about much of anything.

But her.  Alicia.  The woman he loves.

The woman who left him.  

(How could she leave me?  How could she give up on us?  The thoughts roll by in his head like a never ending freight train, its self-destructive cargo branded in torturous repetition.)

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

Nothing.

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

Still, he is numb.

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

He stops, sucks in a 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 his goal.

The thick muscle’s rhythm is consistent, even though this more extreme exercise would normally render one dead.

He feels dead inside already, so…

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

And still feels nothing.

Well, what is the point of it all, then?

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

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

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

He hasn’t slept in weeks.

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

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

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

No reason to knock or ring the doorbell; let her sleep.  Let them all sleep. 

Maybe someday he will sleep again as well…

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

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

Perhaps this gesture will help her to understand. 

Perhaps she will just scream.

Numb, he drives alone 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...

;-)