The Dark...Reloaded: "Gladiatrix." Lights! Cameras! Slaughter!

Actually, as with the previous blog post for "The Sunglasses Girl," this one could also have "Sex, Survival, Something More" as a description of what it deals with as well.  Yet they are totally different stories thematically.

The sex here is of an abusive nature, before turning to the tease, an inhuman twist by a woman who is no longer a woman. Shannon Olivier's torturous past helps unleash within her a primal force, something that harkens back to whatever we were in the beginning that took a breath and fought for survival and...now it's all a Game Show?  Yeah, I don't think I had any idea what this was when I was writing it, but I wanted to tap into that ancient self as well as some crude nod to sexuality used as a weapon, because this is all Shannon, and later She--her individuality deemed unnecessary as she embraces this primal force--has known in her life, it's just the tables have been turned, flipped over, splintered...

Deep psychological scars contorting the person she was and now is into something of a killing machine, in white bra and panties.  Okay, blood drenched white bra and panties. 

This one sinks down into the grime and enjoys it.

If I was to describe it in generic terms, think of any female revenge movie such as I Spit On Your Grave, cross it with a a game show--I usually envision something like The Running Man, but for the life of me, I can't remember much of that movie at all, but it seems more appropriate than, say, the current rage, The Hunger Games, which I've yet to read the books or see the movie, but know I eventually will--but with a more potent psychological foundation.

Here's a couple of takes from the reviews:

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

"Gladiatrix in particular was disturbing."

Here's a clip of Shannon rediscovering who she is, what she...is...

***

     She looked at herself as best as possible.  She was adorned in a white bra and white panties drenched in so much blood as to make the distinction irrelevant. 

     She glanced up and noticed the vents, passageways for unwarranted sleep, gases that brought her brief moments of blackness and ephemeral amnesia.

     Eyes tracking, circling the ceiling, she noticed the video camera, God’s monocle glare watching her regain her senses and what she had become. What she had always been.

     Shannon Olivier, a quiet, damaged girl who had grown into a quiet, damaged woman, stared hard into the Cyclopean eye and sneered.  Shannon Olivier was no longer present, though.  What she had become now took precedence and as such, scanned the room, eyes flitting, nostrils flaring, invigorated by the sights, the smells.  She saw the machete, stuck in an indecipherable limb, leaned over, planted her right foot on the limb, and pulled up on the machete.  A sickening sucking sound slurped against the fetid air.

     The woman who had once been Shannon Olivier put the blade to her lips and licked it, feeling a deep moistness wet her panties. 

     She glanced back to the video camera and swung the blade up to it, shattering it as she did.  She laughed.

     “I would appreciate it if you stopped breaking the cameras, Shannon,” said a voice, heavy and authoritative.

     “Fuck you, God!  If you are everywhere, you don’t need a fuckin’ camera to see me,”  the woman growled. It was an exclamation pulled from a place of atavistic, primal freedom.

     She felt it in her bones, in her body, ancient coliseum architecture whittled into her sinew and synapses, antediluvian skincage anecdotes etched into her flesh, remembrances long forgotten.  She felt it in her veins, like the blood of history; blood licked off the whips that lashed Jesus’ back, inspiring a resurrection hard-on; engorged labial arousal.  She felt it in her soul, the cold waste that preceded thought, the spiritual climax sloshing forth, raping the heavens in a collision of ecstasy and origin.

     She twisted the knob and kicked the door open, striding with intent down the unlit corridor, no fear in whatever might lurk in the darkness.  After all, darkness was her only true friend.

***

Another one for whom The Dark Is Light Enough, eh?  ;-) 

I'm a firm believer in no inhibitions, nothing held back when it comes to writing or life--let's be all-inclusive. I see this coming up even sharper in more current writing projects.  What I enjoy in fiction is writing and writers who go all the way, without reservations (and with wild imaginations, too!).  Even the tiniest offhand comment or description, it needs to be laser focused for maximum impact, maximum resonance, perhaps, much like the paragraph in the sample that begins, "She felt it in her bones..."  I really enjoy when a writer goes to that place we might not want to acknowledge, yet we know it's there; that place where the nub of discomfort, dread...honesty and harsh truths lives.  And so much more.  No inhibitions, I tell you.  It's the only way to leave a real impact. Emotionally and viscerally and along the many branches that extend out from those foundations or...well, look as usual, winging it here, trying to make sense of it all myself. Thinking out loud. 

I want fiction that delves within my psyche and soul and demands reaction, response--my participation in some way.  Even, as noted, if it's just a tiny reaction.  Something, please! 

So much doesn't but that's a blog for another day...

This story is a good example of just getting raw and relishing it and letting it take shape organically, which might explain the first snippet from the review commenting on a bit of imbalance.  Well, as I always say, I'm a work in progress.  We'll see where it all leads over time, eh?  You along for the ride? 

I'm sure The Bride from Tarentino's Kill Bill movies is related to Shannon...well, to what Shannon becomes.  Both know how to handle sharp implements with style, as well...

Enjoy!

Perhaps we'll tap a vein with the next teaser/sample... Hmmm...

The Dark...Reloaded: "The Sunglasses Girl." Sex, Survival, Something More...

Sometimes, no matter the best intentions, one must deal with Life! So, though trying to be consistent, this is my first blog post in about a week, because I've just had one of those weeks, y'know?! Lots going on, lots to deal with, but now, ahhhhhhh, now I get to dig down into some words: a short piece I am looking to wrap up soon, another one, the other novel in process, and reading, catching up there as well.  And, of course, this blog post dealing with "The Sunglasses Girl."

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

I like that.  I like dealing with the grittier aspects of life or at least allowing the characters to roam amidst the honest psychological landscape said aspects inspire; and, really, as always, it's not me allowing them, no no, it's the road they choose.  My interests as channeled via them.  Sure.  I don't mind getting my hands and mind dirty.  What? Yeah, okay, my mind is dirty in many ways, but here I am referencing gritty.  C'mon!  Life on the streets, baby.   

Here's the link to the previous blog take on the story, lots of fun reading there. 

One of my favorite sequences in all of my stories occurs in this story, when revelations are made yet not quite acknowledged, yet. Too bad for poor Trane, our main character, as he slips and slides through the dark alley existence ignoring guilt or his best intentions until it's too late, riding it all the way down to the blackest pit of horror imaginable.  Well, okay, it's dark stuff, black as pitch, brother to the abyss, that kind of true darkness.

Otherwordly, too.  Hmmm...

Here's that sequence, after Trane and The Sunglasses Girl have had sex, sex and more sex in his car, and he wants something more--"something more" being another prime motivation for many of my characters, not always for the best--and she shows him a hint.

A moment of revelation he chooses to ignore...

***

Her playfulness abruptly ceased.  “You don’t want to do that,” she snarled like a lioness guarding her kill.  The snarl made his cock twitch.  “More,” she said, hand kneading the insatiable throb.  Now that he had gotten to know her, he thought everything about her was perfection, more so because of all she did, so completely uninhibited.  He felt a connection, maybe something more transpiring with their union, maybe something more between them.  This was different than with the others.  He thought maybe she could become something more than just the evening’s entertainment.  He knew he needed something more, or his life would not get back to any sense of normalcy; he needed structure, routine.  She might just be the one, but he figured he would not know unless he saw what she was thinking; the eyes never lie.  He thought prying would eventually get her to relinquish the black-lens masquerade, with revelations to follow.     

     “I just want to see your eyes.”

     “Prostitution is not an exercise in closeness. Seeing my eyes will make you think you are closer to me than you are.  Maybe you’re looking for something I cannot give you no matter what you think.” Trane leaned back, uneasily attentive.  “You think they will tell you something my lips won’t tell you.  But I will tell you.  I had fun.  You were good, and if you want more, I will gladly accommodate your wishes.  But if you want something more, just because we’ve had great sex and you are lonely and sad and life sucks, and you think my eyes will tell you this, well, don’t—”

     “But I just want—”     

     “No!  If you wanted love, you would not have assumed I was a prostitute in the first place.”

     “But aren’t you a—”

     “I am whatever I need to be, to survive.  To you, I am a prostitute, but you would have not approached the situation from that point of view if you had really wanted something else, something more, would you?”

     She was right, but how was he to know what he wanted until he had tasted her sinfully delightful charms?  Through the fog of confusing feelings, Trane still found the gumption to push even more.  He clicked on the dome light, pulled his wallet out of his discarded pants, opened it, and told her to take what she wanted.  The bank account was almost drained, but his wallet was always prepared for these digressions: he was loaded.  She took much.  She was worth it.  After she had taken what she thought she deserved, or what she thought he thought she deserved, he plucked a crisp $100 bill from what remained and said, “I want to see your eyes.”

     “No!”  Not even a flinch of possibility.

     Trane pulled out two more $100 bills. 

     She squirmed, noticeably discomforted, but snapped the three $100 bills from his fingers.  He smiled, his erection, even after the exhausting exertion of the previous few hours, starting to dance.  She smiled, all teeth, vicious, gleaming with disgust, and took off her sunglasses.

     “Remember, you made this choice,” she seethed.

     The moment was brief.  Description was useless, but Trane’s mind flashed with unexpected images: vast gulfs of infinite, starless space; yawning abysses where the lost tumbled for eternity; black scars that oozed blindness.  He felt an oppression begin to suffocate him.  She had no eyes, per se, just the empty sockets where they should be, empty sockets that defined the word “empty” in new, disturbing ways: fathomless wells in which the echoed response of the dropped stone would never speak.  They epitomized nothingness, a vast, turbulent nothingness that indicated there was no soul within her, no self, nothing of substance—nothing!—but something of unspecified definition that roiled like a cavern of agitated bats.  The nothingness started to leak like viscous black rivers from a whirlpool of resentment and hatred and loathing and spite and so much more negativity—negativity, that was what he witnessed; the whirlpool writhed with an omniscient negativity—Trane’s head pulsated with the pummeling weight of her wrath.  He gasped, his erection went south, and she put the sunglasses back on. 

     It was only one moment.

***

...because after that last paragraph, that one moment, he's so disorientated, well, his choices, as they've been for awhile, are not in his best interest.  But as for her survival, his bad choices are what she's banking on.


Gave you a little more set-up before it all goes off the edge of the table, I hope you appreciated that.  What? A quote from Eddie Van Halen, I think.  He said that in an interview when talking about influences and saying Eric Clapton was a huge influence, and how he loved the way Clapton's guitar solos often sounded as if they had fallen off the edge of the table. What? Yeah, useless info, but I gotta let it out to play sometimes, y'know?

Ahem!

Also, one more note, the end of the story has a strong nod toward the movie, The Man With The X-Ray Eyes, starring Ray Milland and directed by Roger Corman.  That and something Stephen King said in his book, Danse Macabre. He mentions movies and how at the end of this movie, the final line that they edited out was supposed to be, "I can still see."  Which, under the circumstances of Milland's character, just having plucked out his eyes, is a widly disturbing image yet fraught with possiblities.  That's where, well, when you read this story, remember that and when you get to the end, that was my mindset. 

Here's some lovely links to buy the book, my friends.  Don't be afraid, it won't bite.  Well, it might nibble on your brain and make you squirm with discomfort or dread but, no, it won't really...bite. 
Amazon Amazon UK Amazon Germany Amazon France B&N OmniLit Kobo and how about the Amazon reviews pages, eh?

And, yes, I will update the look of this blog at some point, probably more so when back in Rome which isn't toooooo far off!  ;-)

As for a photo here, hmmm, how about a painting by the surrealist, Vladimir Kush, who does uniquely Kushesque art.   If you look over all of his pieces, there's a tone, feel, there's that element that distinguishes it as his work and nobody elses; not dark, more playful, which I can appreciate, too.  Here we have a pair of sunglasses...with the eyes captured within, something that could have saved Trane a lot of anguish, eh?  What? Yeah, buy the book, find allll about what becomes of him, okay?!

Enjoy!

Another Quickie: Famous In Italy? No, But I Publish Poems There...

oddly enough. 

It's gotta be the Roman girlfriend connection, of course.

Anyway, just last week the first volume of Rome's Revolutionary Poets Brigade was released by Edizioni Ensemble, a small publisher of Books of Quality, from what I can see.  My girlfriend, Alessandra Bava, had her first poetry chapbook, Guerrilla Blues, published by them and as I've held it in my hands and read it frontwards, backwards, upside-down and more, inspected it and such, I can wholeheartedly confirm that, yes, they do quality work.

I have three poems in the collection: Legacy of Warhol, Number One With A Bullet, and Hyenas & Vultures.  All deal with observations of the world in one way or another, misguided goals or misguided leaders or, yeah, just midguided!  More so, I'm in Excellent Company as some of Italy's finest poets, including Alessandra, of course, as well as Marco Cinque (his "Incorrect Lines" is a real kick in the head opening salvo), Olga Campofreda, Marco Lupo, and he rest, really bring powerful imagery and ideas to life with their words.  I'm a part of the mix, kind of an honorary member, I suspect, though I hope when I am back in Rome soon to participate in some readings and what-not in promoting this stellar collection.  Oh, and last but not least, the introduction to the whole thing is by former SF Poet Laureate and all-around cool guy, Jack Hirschman.  Alessandra translated all of the poems into English--it's a bilingual presentation--and I assisted in, um...Americanizing some of the translations? I don't know, she did the heavy work, I supported the efforts and it's a fantastic endeavor, for sure    

I've also had my poem, Cockroach Paradise, published last year in this lovely anthology with a message as well, Acqua Prevata No Grazie.  So, yes, I am famous in Italy as a poet or, well, at least a participant in some strange way with the poetic world over there.

Life is one weird ride.  What?  Yeah, I've said it before and will say it again, but it's always making me shake my head...in a good way.  This is an example of a good way, hehe. 

All that and later this year as part of the second Revolutionary Poets Brigade Anthology, edited by Jack Hirschman and...I think his wife, Agneta Falk Hirschman, another poet of much worth and much potency and fire--a really excellent wordsmith; I will have to confirm, maybe it was a dream or something, I know Hirschman's putting it together and seem to remember, um...hey, where's Alessandra when I need answers?  Well, THAT anthology will include a couple more of my poems, the ever-popular Legacy...as well as Does It Matter?  And, of course, in expanding my International Fame--yeah, right, okay, John Claude, don't let this go to your head!  Never, trust me, none of this goes to my head.  I have no ego.  It just makes me smile and I just keep writing...--wow, that was a long break there...anyway, this one will be published out of France, so hey, with poems published in the USA, Italy and France, I'm well on my way to...well, continuing to write and grow as a writer of poetry and, more so, fiction, but poetry is a wonderful outlet, another branch of this thing I do.

For your amusement, here's Cockroach Paradise, dealing with the misuse of water in our world.  Something we really cannot afford to do.

Enjoy!

***

Cockroach Paradise

by John Claude Smith

water, water everywhere
water, water everywhere?

sipping oil spill martinis
off the coast of New Orleans
the big money movers and shakers
live for the moment and their bloated pocketbooks
not the soiled memories of their great grandchildren
or the gasping cries of gulls dying on blackened beaches
all because humankind is not too kind
while west coast oil and gas marauders
corrupt groundwater with a process called "fracking"
& islands sculpted from plastic water bottles
clog currents fifty miles from the dimming Golden Gate
& nuclear mishap deconstruction
reconstructs the frowning Japanese seaboard 
into a decaying, toothless radioactive smile
Mother Nature's swollen teat spouts inkspot nourishment
& the slow death befitting our just rewards
all because humankind is not too kind
or cognizant of the crimes at hand
the tip of the dunce hat iceberg
crowned in stupidity and soul devouring greed
leering and crouching in the corner
masturbating with our lifeblood as lubrication
with ignorance at the wheel and negligence riding shotgun
& environmental care and fleeting survival instincts
flailing in the rear view mirror
as our final destination gains clarity
the sun sets into the empty soul of a dead ocean
a permanent vacation decreed Extinction awaits
all because humankind is not too kind
& the water that is our lifeblood
is the dumping ground for our fleeting folly:
life as the dominant race of this planet
I raise an empty glass to the cockroaches
toast their imminent rule
swigging on dust
& humankind's dead futures

water, water everywhere?
water, water nevermore
     going,
          going,
               gone...

***

Next time, back to the second big promo push for the book.  More samples/teasers/insight/nonsense...you name it, it's on the way.

Here's...well, was looking for a cockroach picture and this popped up, a Surreal Victorian Steampunk THE MECHANICAL COCKROACH.  Wild and quite handsome, eh?!  I can dig it!

The Dark...Reloaded: "The Dark Is Light Enough For Me": A Six Sentence Sunday Special Edition.

Just because I'm doing this second big deal promo run for the collection and it's Sunday, here's a Six Second Sunday snippet of Deep Down in the Darkest Rabbit Hole Horror culled from the title story, "The Dark Is Light Enough For Me": deep within a narrow mind focused on goals that would seem absurd; deep within the soul of a bleak reality we cannot imagine; deep within a supernaturally aligned existence fueled by a lifetime of years spent in search of "something more," something beyond the mindset of the average human, which our main character, James, struggles always to deny his association, even when he tries to fit in.

Many of the reviews acknowledge a Thomas Ligotti vibe in my work, yet for me, that comes mostly from this story, a purposeful trek into the mental landscape of one scarred (or perhaps enhanced by) a perception of disgust with humanity and aspirations of complete self-annihilation, in some respects.  But what respects? Well, that's part of the puzzle of this complex piece.  See, you have to realize, I didn't know where it was leading until I wrote the flashback sequence toward the end of the story; or even the ending, something born of that sequence, meshing the psychological with the supernatural.

Meshing James' dream with the yawning void he so loved...

A couple clips from reviews

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

"The title story alone will leave you teetering in existential terror..."

Here's six sentences amidst the madness before the flashback and finality.

***

     As it approached, the figure, which might once have been human, turned to me and said, “I know too much, I see too much” in a voice that did not pass judgment on this knowledge.

     It said this to me, for my elucidation alone.   

     “No,” Frank and Michelle protested, all of them tearing at the walls, the smells growing stronger now, the smells of blood and disease, filth and fear.

     More figures illumed out of the darkness, not bright like light bulbs, but blurry, like denial.

     Stan leapt at a window, which cracked but did not break.  He moaned.

***

Funny, one of the things I've noticed in other Six Sentence Sunday snippets is a tendency to have one or two more sentences, not just six.  I understand why, because even here, I want to tease you more with the paragraph before this...and where it all leads.  I simply want you to read the stories to delight in or repulse in my wicked playground imagination.

Whatever, yeah, yeah, here's some purchasing links, for Amazon B&N OmniLit Kobo & Amazon in the UK France & Germany.

Did I tell you the "I know too much story"?  Hang on, let me check...No, I didn't but for the sake of being thorough, here's a link to the previous blog post dealing with this story.  Now, the story about that statement, which has haunted me ever since I heard it.  Back up, here goes.  I was out with my buddy, Fred, in a Carl's Jr. hamburger joint in San Francisco, grimy part of town, strip clubs across the street, yeah inspiration for my sick mind everywhere.  Ahem.  Anyway, as we sat there eating, a homeless man meandered into the restaurant, made his way to the salad bar...and started to trash it! As the crew working there attempted to get a hold on the situation, he looked at me, directly at me, his eyes going from glazed and distant, as if not even there, to so focused I felt the laser burn at the back of my skull--yeah, through My Eyes and into the back of my skull--and he said, "I know too much."  And was done, out of there.

I know he did.

That sentence has wriggled into my synaptic mainframe and set up house.  It came up in my first novel, a similar sequence, actually--the novel is called, The Corner Of His Mind, it's not yet published--as well as in a couple short stories.  It resonates with possibilities.

I. Know. Too. Much.

And I want to know what he knows...even if insanity is where it all leads.  Well, okay, not insanity, but stories culled from a place not often trespassed by other writers, perhaps...

Let's see...a piece of art? Here's a great one from Rob Sheridan called, ahem, "Eyeball(oon)." How does it relate to my story?  Well, there are many eyeballs being tossed around in the quest of forging a doorway to a dark matter dimension or...um, well, yeah, that's kind of it.  At least this young girl has a tether to her eyeball(oon) so she doesn't lose it.

Enjoy!

The Dark...Reloaded: "Strange Trees." Nature & Ritual & A Fictional Anthology?

My fascination with strange trees, with what goes on in nature that we have no clue about, runs deep.  So deep that this story was to be one of a handful dealing with the subject of not just strange trees but strange nature, foundation for a fictional anthology called Strange Trees. I may still write those stories, probably because the wily, wicked ways of nature supply a wealth of possible paths to explore.  And in saying, "wicked," that's only a perception we humans lend to what we don't know; to the mysterious, the unknown and even unknowable.  Because in the forest, my friend, we cannot truly know what goes on, what spirits or forces run rampant beyond our view. 

That's even a  major part of my novel, "The Wilderness Within," in which a sentient forest plays a major role.  I can't wait for you to read that one, oh yes.  You think some of my short fiction is, um, fun...hehehehe...when it all hits the wall in the novel, all bets are off.  What happens then is like nothing you've ever read.  Trust me on that.  But, in saying that, let's be real: a lot of speculative fiction is like nothing you've ever read.  That's just my way of saying you'll have a wild ride, that's all.  ;-)  I believe I may start posting samples and more from the novel(s) after this second big promo push for The Dark Is Light Enough for Me.  

Anyway, nature gone weird plays a key role in many of my stories and this one is a prime example.  Here's what a couple reviewers had to say about "Strange Trees."

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

"Our self-image (and self-worth) is attacked in "I Want To Be A Pretty Little Girl," as nature's dark secrets are revealed in "Strange Trees.""

"Strange Trees; indeed, strange, strange."

Yeah, Strange.

And here's a sample snagged from after the trees have somehow persuaded Terrence to leave his girlfriend at their disposal...yeah, okay, it may all seem bizarre, but buy the book and it comes together in a weird dance of disturbing revelations right about...

Now:

***

     I awoke abruptly, a sudden hiccup, exhalation of trapped air, face moist and cold, the whole of me, damp.  My eyes ached, adjusting, gray skies above me—movement!  Impossible movement at the edges and all around me.  The sky was overcast, my vision coming into focus, finally, but what of the movement?  What—

     The trees were moving!  The trees were moving, hunched over, a scrum mocking the laws of nature, the core of what was above ground seeming kinetic.

     That is when I saw her—Mandy—clothing shredded and strapped upon a mound, held there via the roots of some thicker trees that coiled out from below the ground and subdued her as sufficiently as buckled straps.  The thin, mobile trees leaned over with a flexibility that defied logic, an elasticity that obliterated normal perceptions, dipping spear-like tips into her body, crimson tipped now—looking like the quills of those who sign their souls over to the devil—what was going on?    

     The trees were changing color as they did this, the bleached bone look—gone— replaced by a healthier tan turning to rich brown pigment. 

     She was the “it” they—yes, the trees—wanted brought to them, the “it” they wanted me to bring to them.  Me, somehow drafted, persuaded, responsible for her outrageous incapacitation.   

     I screamed “No” as I got up, tearing thin roots that were haphazardly draped over my body—I hadn’t even noticed them—the efficiency of their effort to restrain me distracted by the easy attraction and fulfillment of Mandy’s more susceptible condition: her blood had been what they had wanted, reasons withheld and beyond my comprehension.  The trees turned in unison, facing me—unwilling participant to their hideous desires—branches brandished in clenched talon urgency, the whole of their bodies slapping down around me with brutal, wood-cracking vehemence.  I stumbled to an awkward stance, spear-like tips shooting in my direction like daggers, flailing branches intent on snaring me.

***

What's left is a harsh resignation to those mysterious forces of nature we can never really know...

Yes, I will at some point update the blog look a bit to add pages for ordering and reviews and stuff.  Right now, times are hectic and I'm just trying to be consistent with the posts.  So, the book is called, The Dark Is Light Enough For Me, and it's available via Amazon, B&N, OmniLit, Kobo and more.  Actual links are posted in every other blog teaser/sample.  Buy it for a truly fantastical and dread-laced, deeply psychological and even supernatural ride through my wicked playground imagination.

More in a couple/few days, of course.  As I said, consistency, baby, that's what I'm doing now.  Same thing needs to lock in with the too many stories in progress. But that happens, then there's a surge, and a lot get completed.  I'm sure many of the writers out there understand what I'm talking about.

Here's a tree creature, one that might just be releated to the sentient trees in the story, though this fella, created by Oliver Chipping, seems more a hybrid of man and tree and...hmmm, that's one of my fave myths and ideas to work with, too.  Man, nature, melded...hmmm...

Enjoy!

A Quickie, Then Back To Our Regularly Scheduled Story Teaser/Samples After This Poem About Politics...

No, I don't do politics.

But.

A lot of the poetry I like deals with the world at hand, the chaos that dominates.  Which means, yeah, politics can play an intergral role in some of what I enjoy about poetry.  Don't get me wrong, I love a wide variety of poetry.  Dark verse or keen insight, observations of the flesh, the soul, or of what's right outside your front door; revolutionary ideals or even horror poetry, if it's done with an eye toward something original and not simply fancy bloodletting.  The point is I enjoy poetry...and write some, too, have had some published, have published some here on the blog, have some slated for anthologies out later this year and...sooooo...since I am zonked and wanted to get a quickie post up here, thought, well, I'll post this poem I wrote about politics and get back to the teaser/samples blogs for my collection in a day or two.  What's the name of the collection?  Yes, by now if you've been paying attention, you know it's called, The Dark Is Light Enough For Me, though how many of you have bought it?  Ahhhh, here's the purchasing links for Amazon & B&N & OmniLit & Amazon UK & there's more, that's a few... Anyway, taking a brief break, so now, a masterpiece of politically-aligned poetry entitled, "Turd."

What the...?

Yeah, "Turd."  I have never liked that word, remember way back when, buying The Rolling Stones 2bl LP, Exiles on Main Street--haha, kind of a weirdly kismet title for a post on politics, perhaps--and there's a song on that thar 2bl album called, "Turd on the Run," and years later many people and polls consider this one of The Greatest Rock Album(s) Ever, yet I could never consider this as viable because there's a damned song on it called, "Turd on the Run," so now, here I am, that word never works for me, dislike that word immensely, yet now it's found its purpose!  Now, in the politically-charged climate that's only going to get hotter and uglier over the next six months or so in the states, "Turd" makes all the sense in the world.  Without further adieu...

***

Turd

By John Claude Smith

It might wear a thousand dollar suit,

Teeth whitened to a piercing glare,
Hair sprayed stiff as a plastic helmet,
Squinting eyes like rifle scopes set on the masses:

Bang!

Bang!
Bang!

Apparently you can polish a turd,

Make the empty-headed puppet smile and dance,
But it will always be a turd.
Just take a deep sniff.

That’s the smell of your children’s futures turning to dust.

Fucking politicians!

***

No, not great art, but it was fun to write!  hehe...  It IS appropriate, though, this scribbled fist of words shaken toward Those In Power whose goals are at odds with common sense and humanity, in particular the rights of women and...oh, ahem.  Yeah, you know which way this leans.

But remember...

I don't do politics.

Next time, back to the book, more teaser/samples to whet your appetite.  For now, here's the back cover of The Rolling Stones' Exiles on Main Street because sometimes nonsense is all we got.

Enjoy!

The Dark...Reloaded: "Things That Crawl...In Hollywood." Love, Greed...Body Parts.

"Things That Crawl...In Hollywood" is, I am sure, a direct response to that Philip Jose Farmer story with a character with a double penis, if I remember correctly, and...was there a battle involving said double penis?  Something, anything, I'm grasping at greased straws here. Well, it was something of that bizarre nature, but here I've infused that lunacy into my disgust for Hollywood and all things celebrity, and decided to go simply mad, my dears!  As in, though I mostly write serious, deep, serious, mind-expanding, er...serious fiction, with this one, the black humored lunacy abounds and it was damn fun to write [though it also taps into that deep vibe with the observations on love, perhaps].  Here's a brief sample as the hapless celebrity screw-up, Brande, realizes why exactly he's been dragged to the epicenter of...of...let's just say, anybody who has had plastic surgery, enchancements, what have you, has had those body parts fall off and mutate, take on a life of their own, and now, ah, yes, now...there's Reality TV $$$$$ to be made, so...

[and after this, an amusing tidbit about my mother] [what the HECK is my mother doing in this post? hang on...]

***

     “W-what’s g-going to...happen?”

     “Well,” he [ed. note: he is Merrill Thatcher, a big-time dealer in Reality TV BS] held the pad up to Brande’s face, tapping the place next to Brande’s name, and Brande cringed as he read the two words that followed his name: penis enhancement.

     “Oh, shit.” The metallic ting ting ting of a zipper being rudely wrenched apart was followed by Brande’s bug-eyed appraisal of his penis as it burst from the confines of his pants, fully three, maybe four times in length as what he had bargained for with the doctors in South America, as thick as his well-toned bicep and wiggling like an eel in his desperate hands.

     Jane Hart Rivers guffawed in bright amusement: “I loved you, not your dick. The real you.  But once again, your dick will be your downfall!”

     Brande barely heard her, distracted by the preposterous, propeller-like gyrations emanating from his groin.  Thatcher angled away from the tentacle-like lashing of Brande’s penis.  Brande tried to contain it, to no avail. 

     And then, with full-on ejaculatory force, the penis spat a steaming rope of semen at Thatcher, a dry, wiry cable that braided itself around Thatcher’s neck like a noose.

     Thatcher was swift to respond, whipping out the .44 Magnum, squeezing the trigger and obliterating the semen like noose.  “No pearl necklace for me, buddy boy!  Strictly hetero, evil dick!”

     The semen turned to liquid again, and Thatcher seemed even more appalled by this, wiping it off his shirt and soiled skin.

     The penis paused like a cobra, arched and ready to attack.  Thatcher did not want to have to shoot the penis. He wanted it in the cage.  But with the camera’s rolling, he was sure he’d gotten what was necessary for the PPV contract to kick in big time, so it didn’t really matter at this point. 

     With a mild tearing sound reminiscent of the peeling that separates two pieces of Velcro, the penis dislodged itself from Brande’s groin, lunging toward Thatcher.  Jane Hart Rivers snickered at the bizarre theatrics.

     “You can’t keep a good man down, eh, Merrill?”    

     Thatcher grabbed the penis at the base of the head as it spit and hissed just above his fingers—the mutant maw grinding and gnashing angrily—kicked the door to the cage open, shoved it in alongside Karina Payne’s breast, and slammed it shut.

     Sucking deeply on his cigar, his breathing raspy, Thatcher said, “You can’t keep a good man down, but this Brande imbecile is no good man.”  He glanced with disgust toward Brande.

     Brande seemed oblivious to what had just transpired beyond a dazed observation of the hairless mound where his penis used to reside.   He shuddered, staring in disbelief.

     “It’s gone.  There’s nothing there.  It’s gone!”

     “No, smart boy, it’s right here.”  Thatcher pointed to the cage, in which the penis lovingly snuggled up to the breast. They looked almost normal again.

***

Sometimes you write a line that so captures the heart of the story.  With "Things That Crawl..." this line always makes me smile, so ridiculous yet so appropo: “No pearl necklace for me, buddy boy! Strictly hetero, evil dick!”  Yes, yes, a classic, I know [he said, bowing, pants ripping as well as his deflating ego...].

Ahem!

So, my mother.  She bought this collection.  Of course she would, but it's nothing like what she would normally read. Sure, some of the stories might work for her, she used to read a lot of horror and related stuff and helped set me on my path as a horror writer, I'm sure.  But now she's 79, quite Christian, and I remember her saying when she first got the book, flipping to a random page and at the top of the page, a cuss-word, "I can't read this!"  Adamant...until, well, she read some of the reviews.  And for some reason beyond my imagining, she decided to read this story.  Yeah, all those body parts including wayward breasts and Brande's leaping penis.  Oh, maaaaaaaaaaaaan.  I laughed and cringed and had to laugh harder when she told me she had read it and couldn't put it down, no matter the subject matter.  She was cracking up when she told me this story.  Though I don't know if she's ventured any deeper into the collection, just knowing she read this story makes me feel all warm and fuzzy and...no, that's the cat!  No, wait, that's no cat.  Where is this going?

No matter.  Just another taste of my collection, The Dark Is Light Enough For Me, available via Amazon, B&N, OmniLit, Kobo and, I'm sure, more online sellers.  Check it out and I'll see you in a couple/few days with something much darker and more 'me,' though something tells me this one's as much me as any of the stories; just me in a perverse, comical mood.

Here's a lovely photo of Angelina Jolie with what looks like some pieces of her facing having fallen off...

;-)