Greetings my fellow revelers of the dark and demented, sick and twisted, and just plain perverse.
October was indeed an interesting month. I got to see one of the infamous SAMHAIN's final perfomances (show review here: http://theintestinalfortitude.wordpress.com/2014/10/30/samhain-30th-anniversary-tour-review-by-vincent-daemon/ ), which was magnificent.
I was lucky enough to have my bittersweet Halloween fable "See You Next Year My Love" appear in the FREEZINE's "Devil's Week Spectacular," along with four other writers who I couldn't have been be more ecstatic to have appeared with in this special edition of the ezine: John Claude Smith, HP Lovecraft, Gil Bavel, and finally the inimitable John Shirley. Even with the holiday now weeks behind, it is still (and always will be) worth a look -- five tales of the Season Of The Dead from a group of writers you cannot go wrong with. You can find all that here: http://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2014/11/devils-week.html
In other news I am currently putting together my first anthology, BURY ME IN A NAMELESS GRAVE, consisting of tales both previously published (many out of print now), and newer works as well.
I've appeared twice (episodes #49 and I think # 47) as a guest on the ANDROID VIRUS & SEAN radio show, to which I am most grateful for, and is always a hell of a lot of fun. They can be tuned in to almost every Friday night, 9pm to 11pm EST at: http://www.stitcher.com/podcast/androidvirus-sean-show (which also features all their previous episodes -- go have a listen, get some laughs, and perhaps even learn a little morbid knowledge as well).
My column ROSETTA BONES is going quite well, and can be found at: http://theintestinalfortitude.wordpress.com/category/reviews-editorials/rosetta-bones/
on THE INTESTINAL FORTITUDE http://theintestinalfortitude.wordpress.com/ It is the online companion piece to the ANDROID VIRUS & SEAN radio show.
ANY writers, musicians, or filmmakers feel free to contact me at vdaemon13@gmail.com for an interview or to have your work reviewed.
And finally, speaking of film, the earliest planning stages are in the works for a filmed version of my 2010 novella WAITING FOR THE END , which was published as a serial on the FREEZINE as well, and can be found here: http://extremezine.blogspot.com/2010/03/waiting-for-end-2.html?zx=bbf1cfadc126c6a2
Scripting and screenplay duties will be handled collaboratively by myslef and intense poetess and screenwriter Linda Angel (check her blog at http://liberatetutemet.com/ ), and directing duties to be handled by Shaun Lawton. The rest will fall into place as we progress. As stated this is in its earliest stages of planning, the project not scheduled to fully begin until the new year. I am most excited about this, personally, as are the others thus far involved. The most interesting part is that these people came to me about this. It'd be foolish to not do this. More news on the project will appear here as it progresses.
And speaking of 2015, expect the (hopeful) return of GRAVE DEMAND Magazine (at some point) in a new online format. The revised title will be Grave Demand: OPEN CASKET. Again, more on this as it developes.
If you made it this far, thanks for reading, and as always, STAY SICK,
Vincent Daemon
6669
Monday, November 17, 2014
Friday, September 26, 2014
LIFE IS STRANGE and NEWS
LIFE IS STRANGE, NO?
Firstly, life is strange. It just is. The whys and wherefores matter not, oft times, only instinct and intuition. Timing. Decision. Action. Perception. Reality.
But just what is real.
Sometimes weird things just happen, and something from somewhere says no or now. Sometimes it can be at the best of possible times, others the worst. Sometimes just in the middle, when you feel you live in a "dying place" inside yourself. When you feel incorporeal; or like a fully dried raisin, empty but for a few useless and wasting calories. Spent and tired and drained and passionless and always awake. Too awake. Scary awake. Too many shadows darting from the corners of your eyes. You are sober when this happens. That is when the bottom feels like it is slipping out. The bottom of your mind, sluicing through empty and invisible pores as sweat and invisible gasses . . . you feel like an Android. Or perhaps a Replicant. Devoid of ALL creativity and Free Will and Thought . . . and you feel like living damage: a consistently self-deprecating invisible demon claws forever at your back,your heart. Depression, anxiety . . . madness slowly sets in as creativity slithers silently out.
Then?
Nothing.
Until that one day your demons decide to fukk with you just a little more. Then seclusion, exile of the self and will and mind; all of it self-delusion.
But you don't know that yet.
No, not til that day you, seemingly for no apparent reason whatsoever, decide get up and attempt to (proactively through intuition/instinct?) do something you've been battling with yourself about for what by now feels like aeons, actively fighting to remember passwords and log-ins and usernames and all that bullshit.
"A writer who doesn't write, is merely an insane person." Not the exact quote; do not recall who said it; too lazy to look it up, heh. But it was something writer and friend John Claude Smith had said to me once in an online conversation we had been having about writing and madness and muses.
Your perceptions,of all things, have shifted. Now you have noticed that.
But this comes with another something you didn't notice due to your ever so oddly wired perpetual-motor time-shift mind frame (of the passed [yes, spelled as such on purpose] what feels like aeons), as again it didn't allow you to notice. Things you would not/could not have conceived.
My own mind, once again, my own worst enemy.
Finally, though, it circles round, the slithering Ouroborous round the Moebius Strip; the machine has re-awoken, restarted itself, not alone but through the other beautiful strips that criss-crossed yours, bringing to your eyes now colors that you did not even realize existed yet always have; colors that speak in the soft martian-sky whispers of cosmic winds and the safe, warm eternal sands they cover you with, cocoon-like. A cocoon that slowly crackles, bringing forth a different, healthier, safer beast, one of positive energy as opposed to negative despair.
Its like learning to breathe for the first time. Creativity has come back. Learning, slowly, to take better of myself, inside my mind; inside my heart.
We all should, we all need to.
If you actually read all this ramble, try to learn from it as I am, if you yourself are in despair. And thank you for your time.
Onto other things now:
NEWS:
Starting at some point today at the FREEZINE Of Fantasy And Science Fiction, is my 4 part serial OF CADENCE AND WEATHERED STATUES. Runs from today until Monday Sept. 29th. Go read and enjoy some great FREE Lovecraftian-themed fiction, my style, as well as the other great stories by Gene Stewart and Keith Graham that appeared in this edition of the FZ. Go here: http://boardtree.blogspot.com/2014/09/the-return-of-vincent-daemon.html?spref=fb and check until it is up, which should be by this evening. When up I'll put in the proper link.
Also, check out my regular new column ROSETTA BONES ( http://theintestinalfortitude.wordpress.com/category/reviews-editorials/rosetta-bones/ ) on the e-zine THE INTESTINAL FORTITUDE ( http://theintestinalfortitude.wordpress.com/ ), essentially the online companion to THE ANDROID VIRUS AND SEAN radio show ( http://www.theintestinalfortitude.com/ ). My ROSETTA BONES column covers music/film reviews and rants and rages on whatever topic hits at the time and more. Currentlyup, my review for the new album from Dave Lombardo's project PHILM (http://theintestinalfortitude.wordpress.com/2014/09/22/philm-fire-from-the-evening-sun-review-by-vincent-daemon/ ), and a commentary on morbid porn titled Elegy: The Death Knell Of Sensuality In Smut ( http://theintestinalfortitude.wordpress.com/2014/09/18/rosetta-bones-elegy-the-death-knell-of-sensuality-in-smut/ ). For October's horrors I'll be doing (amongst reviews) a several part article on the horrific history of the band CHRISTIAN DEATH, righting wrongs, dispelling misgivings and the many myths that surround these enigmatic Goth Rock legends. And on that, I just may be on the radio show at some point in October, as it is their special October Horror's Month, and they have a great line-up of guests and gags. More info as it comes.
In October I will be in a special holiday edition of the FREEZINE, with two of my favorites, but for now that remains between the nano's and I. However, you will not be disappointed. And if you are, shame on you.
And some things I have come across that you should all give a look-see:
For you words, check out the blog Liberate Tutemet ( http://liberatetutemet.com/ ), by writer Linda Nagle. Sonnets, verse, and wondrously worded, intelligent rants from this incredibly gifted and perceptive writer. Very powerful, passionate, raw, honest wordplay at work here.
For your visuals, check out Kara Koma's gallery ( subculture-nos.deviantart.com/ ) to see some amazing, macabre and beautiful art from another of the great undiscovered's floating around. Plus her gruesomely erotic piece "Weathered Statue" accompanies my story this weekend in the FREEZINE.
That's all for now, kiddies. Looks like you all have some reading and investigating to do, and it will be well worth your while to do so.
Thanks for reading and Stay Sick,
Vincent Daemon
Firstly, life is strange. It just is. The whys and wherefores matter not, oft times, only instinct and intuition. Timing. Decision. Action. Perception. Reality.
But just what is real.
Sometimes weird things just happen, and something from somewhere says no or now. Sometimes it can be at the best of possible times, others the worst. Sometimes just in the middle, when you feel you live in a "dying place" inside yourself. When you feel incorporeal; or like a fully dried raisin, empty but for a few useless and wasting calories. Spent and tired and drained and passionless and always awake. Too awake. Scary awake. Too many shadows darting from the corners of your eyes. You are sober when this happens. That is when the bottom feels like it is slipping out. The bottom of your mind, sluicing through empty and invisible pores as sweat and invisible gasses . . . you feel like an Android. Or perhaps a Replicant. Devoid of ALL creativity and Free Will and Thought . . . and you feel like living damage: a consistently self-deprecating invisible demon claws forever at your back,your heart. Depression, anxiety . . . madness slowly sets in as creativity slithers silently out.
Then?
Nothing.
Until that one day your demons decide to fukk with you just a little more. Then seclusion, exile of the self and will and mind; all of it self-delusion.
But you don't know that yet.
No, not til that day you, seemingly for no apparent reason whatsoever, decide get up and attempt to (proactively through intuition/instinct?) do something you've been battling with yourself about for what by now feels like aeons, actively fighting to remember passwords and log-ins and usernames and all that bullshit.
"A writer who doesn't write, is merely an insane person." Not the exact quote; do not recall who said it; too lazy to look it up, heh. But it was something writer and friend John Claude Smith had said to me once in an online conversation we had been having about writing and madness and muses.
Your perceptions,of all things, have shifted. Now you have noticed that.
But this comes with another something you didn't notice due to your ever so oddly wired perpetual-motor time-shift mind frame (of the passed [yes, spelled as such on purpose] what feels like aeons), as again it didn't allow you to notice. Things you would not/could not have conceived.
My own mind, once again, my own worst enemy.
Finally, though, it circles round, the slithering Ouroborous round the Moebius Strip; the machine has re-awoken, restarted itself, not alone but through the other beautiful strips that criss-crossed yours, bringing to your eyes now colors that you did not even realize existed yet always have; colors that speak in the soft martian-sky whispers of cosmic winds and the safe, warm eternal sands they cover you with, cocoon-like. A cocoon that slowly crackles, bringing forth a different, healthier, safer beast, one of positive energy as opposed to negative despair.
Its like learning to breathe for the first time. Creativity has come back. Learning, slowly, to take better of myself, inside my mind; inside my heart.
We all should, we all need to.
If you actually read all this ramble, try to learn from it as I am, if you yourself are in despair. And thank you for your time.
Onto other things now:
NEWS:
Starting at some point today at the FREEZINE Of Fantasy And Science Fiction, is my 4 part serial OF CADENCE AND WEATHERED STATUES. Runs from today until Monday Sept. 29th. Go read and enjoy some great FREE Lovecraftian-themed fiction, my style, as well as the other great stories by Gene Stewart and Keith Graham that appeared in this edition of the FZ. Go here: http://boardtree.blogspot.com/2014/09/the-return-of-vincent-daemon.html?spref=fb and check until it is up, which should be by this evening. When up I'll put in the proper link.
Also, check out my regular new column ROSETTA BONES ( http://theintestinalfortitude.wordpress.com/category/reviews-editorials/rosetta-bones/ ) on the e-zine THE INTESTINAL FORTITUDE ( http://theintestinalfortitude.wordpress.com/ ), essentially the online companion to THE ANDROID VIRUS AND SEAN radio show ( http://www.theintestinalfortitude.com/ ). My ROSETTA BONES column covers music/film reviews and rants and rages on whatever topic hits at the time and more. Currentlyup, my review for the new album from Dave Lombardo's project PHILM (http://theintestinalfortitude.wordpress.com/2014/09/22/philm-fire-from-the-evening-sun-review-by-vincent-daemon/ ), and a commentary on morbid porn titled Elegy: The Death Knell Of Sensuality In Smut ( http://theintestinalfortitude.wordpress.com/2014/09/18/rosetta-bones-elegy-the-death-knell-of-sensuality-in-smut/ ). For October's horrors I'll be doing (amongst reviews) a several part article on the horrific history of the band CHRISTIAN DEATH, righting wrongs, dispelling misgivings and the many myths that surround these enigmatic Goth Rock legends. And on that, I just may be on the radio show at some point in October, as it is their special October Horror's Month, and they have a great line-up of guests and gags. More info as it comes.
In October I will be in a special holiday edition of the FREEZINE, with two of my favorites, but for now that remains between the nano's and I. However, you will not be disappointed. And if you are, shame on you.
And some things I have come across that you should all give a look-see:
For you words, check out the blog Liberate Tutemet ( http://liberatetutemet.com/ ), by writer Linda Nagle. Sonnets, verse, and wondrously worded, intelligent rants from this incredibly gifted and perceptive writer. Very powerful, passionate, raw, honest wordplay at work here.
For your visuals, check out Kara Koma's gallery ( subculture-nos.deviantart.com/ ) to see some amazing, macabre and beautiful art from another of the great undiscovered's floating around. Plus her gruesomely erotic piece "Weathered Statue" accompanies my story this weekend in the FREEZINE.
That's all for now, kiddies. Looks like you all have some reading and investigating to do, and it will be well worth your while to do so.
Thanks for reading and Stay Sick,
Vincent Daemon
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
BACK ON THE GRID (No I Am Not Dead)
BACK ON THE GRID (No I Am Not Dead)
Greetings one and all. No, I am not dead (on the outside, anyway). It's been quite a while since I have made a post here, or anywhere for that matter. Details are not important here, merely that I am doing a bit better, have started writing regularly again, and even have started working on some visual art as well.
My disappearance from the grid was something I had to do for my own piece of mind and sanity. Depression, anxiety, insomnia, and agoraphobia (which became techno-agoraphobia) led to a severe writers block. It had never been this bad before, this was something new. Writer's block led to life block. And finally to a very fizzle-fried and broken computer, leading me to say fukk it.
I've hidden away long enough. It is now time to return from the shadows of the Cosmic Hades and do what it is I do (which could be any number of things on any given day -- you get the idea I'm sure).
As for GRAVE DEMAND, it is currently on hiatus until financial (and some other) situations improve. All contributors please send your submitted works elsewhere for now, where your greatnesses can be read and appreciated.
I may have a new story entitled Of Cadence And Weathered Statues in the FREEZINE OF FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION come the end of September.
And currently special thanks to Kara Koma, Shaun Lawton, Adam Bolivar, and Eddie "Skinhead Gourmet" Petro for their time, patience, kind ears (eyes?), and special words to help me pull through this and start getting my shit back together. No man is an island, yet I tried to make myself one, due to so many varying factors, many of which were my own dear familiar phantoms.
I did have some work published in 2013 that I never bothered to advertise. So here it is:
-- TIMING IS EVERYTHING is in the Diabolic Publications anthology DIABOLIC TALES III http://www.amazon.com/Diabolic-Tales-III-Adam-Millard/dp/0979169437/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1410373027&sr=8-1&keywords=diabolic+tales+3
-- PLASMATICK is in INFERNAL INK (Volume 2, Issue 1, April 2013) http://www.amazon.com/Infernal-Magazine-vol-issue-April-ebook/dp/B00C37BIJA/ref=sr_1_5?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1410374041&sr=1-5&keywords=infernal+ink+magazine
-- A POISONED IDEA is in INFERNAL INK (Volume 2, Issue 2, July 2013) http://www.amazon.com/Infernal-Magazine-vol-issue-July-ebook/dp/B00DP1PGCS/ref=pd_sim_b_1?ie=UTF8&refRID=0N66CF45K3TTAGE1FW1V
-- TRIALS was featured in the print only zine Nightmares From The Attic (I believe that was the title, I never received a copy of the zine, only a few were printed and they are hard to find).
Again, there was another published piece or two in 2013 that my fried brain cannot quite recall, nor can I check my fried computer that had it all listed out. Nor the backup as that was accidentally smashed during a recent move.
Any further questions (about anything, personal, writing related, etc. direct them to me personally at vdaemon13@gmail.com
Otherwise, if anyone actually reads this, please join and pass the gun (ie: word) around, and, as always. Thank you for your time.
Never Let The Bastards Get You Down,
Vincent Daemon
Greetings one and all. No, I am not dead (on the outside, anyway). It's been quite a while since I have made a post here, or anywhere for that matter. Details are not important here, merely that I am doing a bit better, have started writing regularly again, and even have started working on some visual art as well.
My disappearance from the grid was something I had to do for my own piece of mind and sanity. Depression, anxiety, insomnia, and agoraphobia (which became techno-agoraphobia) led to a severe writers block. It had never been this bad before, this was something new. Writer's block led to life block. And finally to a very fizzle-fried and broken computer, leading me to say fukk it.
I've hidden away long enough. It is now time to return from the shadows of the Cosmic Hades and do what it is I do (which could be any number of things on any given day -- you get the idea I'm sure).
As for GRAVE DEMAND, it is currently on hiatus until financial (and some other) situations improve. All contributors please send your submitted works elsewhere for now, where your greatnesses can be read and appreciated.
I may have a new story entitled Of Cadence And Weathered Statues in the FREEZINE OF FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION come the end of September.
And currently special thanks to Kara Koma, Shaun Lawton, Adam Bolivar, and Eddie "Skinhead Gourmet" Petro for their time, patience, kind ears (eyes?), and special words to help me pull through this and start getting my shit back together. No man is an island, yet I tried to make myself one, due to so many varying factors, many of which were my own dear familiar phantoms.
I did have some work published in 2013 that I never bothered to advertise. So here it is:
-- TIMING IS EVERYTHING is in the Diabolic Publications anthology DIABOLIC TALES III http://www.amazon.com/Diabolic-Tales-III-Adam-Millard/dp/0979169437/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1410373027&sr=8-1&keywords=diabolic+tales+3
-- PLASMATICK is in INFERNAL INK (Volume 2, Issue 1, April 2013) http://www.amazon.com/Infernal-Magazine-vol-issue-April-ebook/dp/B00C37BIJA/ref=sr_1_5?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1410374041&sr=1-5&keywords=infernal+ink+magazine
-- A POISONED IDEA is in INFERNAL INK (Volume 2, Issue 2, July 2013) http://www.amazon.com/Infernal-Magazine-vol-issue-July-ebook/dp/B00DP1PGCS/ref=pd_sim_b_1?ie=UTF8&refRID=0N66CF45K3TTAGE1FW1V
-- TRIALS was featured in the print only zine Nightmares From The Attic (I believe that was the title, I never received a copy of the zine, only a few were printed and they are hard to find).
Again, there was another published piece or two in 2013 that my fried brain cannot quite recall, nor can I check my fried computer that had it all listed out. Nor the backup as that was accidentally smashed during a recent move.
Any further questions (about anything, personal, writing related, etc. direct them to me personally at vdaemon13@gmail.com
Otherwise, if anyone actually reads this, please join and pass the gun (ie: word) around, and, as always. Thank you for your time.
Never Let The Bastards Get You Down,
Vincent Daemon
Thursday, December 13, 2012
A Blog-Tag Interview on "Bury Me In A Nameless Grave." And A Sliver Of News.
Apparently I am involved in an interview blog tag. So here is a series of form questions I received about the collection of short stories I am about to start shopping out, Bury Me In A Nameless Grave: A Collection Of 11, and the subsequent answers.
And one sliver of news: My tale Trials, and the poem Queen Cobra, will both be appearing in the print only magazine Affraid Of The Basement, Issue #1, coming early 2013. More info posted as I get it.
Thanks for reading.
BLOG-TAG INTERVIEW
1) What is the working title of your next book?
Bury Me In A Nameless Grave: A Collection of 11.
2) Where did the idea come from for the book?
It came from a myriad of strange and dark places, many of which I've been to on some psychological level, and all of which you would never want to go.
3) What genre does your book fall under?
It has been referred to as transgressive and occasionally "cutting edge" horror. With some erotica and occasionally gallows humor thrown into the mix for good measure.
4) Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
I've never really considered it.
5) What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
It will contain eleven tales of the bizarre and the bittersweet, the madness of broken souls, bad love, and the beasts within men.
6) Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
I will be shopping it out to a publisher.
7) How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
These are stories both previously printed and new, that I have culled together over the past four years.
8) What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
I've been told that comparisons can not easily be made between my stuff and the works of others. Some have compared it to aspects of Edward Lee, Jack Ketchum, early Clive Barker, William S. Burroughs, and M. Gira's book The Consumer. Honestly, I'm not big on the comparison thing.
9) Who or what inspired you to write this book?
The incredibly strange and surreal life that I have lived thus far, which does not seem to be altering from that course anytime soon. Also, at the urging of some friends and fans, and to one in particular who shall remain nameless. They know who they are.
10) What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
It can be both brutal and occasionally touching, gut-wrenching, and is sure to leave you with ideas, imagery, and emotion that you won't soon be able to shake.
---As per the agreement (geez, that sounds kinda sinister) of this blog tag, here are some other fine writers whom you should all check out a.s.a.p.---
Scott M. Baker (host of the blog tag)
http://scottmbakerauthor.blogspot.com/
Maxine Xaviera
www.themxperience.blogspot.com
Bracken MacLeod http://luxferre.wordpress.com/2012/12/13/dark-and-sexy-monsters-its-almost-time-to-dance/
John Claude Smith http://thewildernesswithinbyjohnclaudesmith.blogspot.com/
Hydra M. Star http://www.hydramstar.com/
Bracken MacLeod http://luxferre.wordpress.com/2012/12/13/dark-and-sexy-monsters-its-almost-time-to-dance/
John Claude Smith http://thewildernesswithinbyjohnclaudesmith.blogspot.com/
Hydra M. Star http://www.hydramstar.com/
Thursday, December 6, 2012
Actual updates? News? Krampus turds?
Greetings all.
As the vile stink of the Christmas season permeates absolutely everything around us for the next month or so, and varied forms of true misery seem to be creeping in everywhere, it appears I have some news. Yes, an actual blog update. Like turds under the tree from the Krampus himself . . . gifts.
Firstly, come the new year (barring there isn't some hideous pole shift or something that pulls all of our innards fully and outwardly up through our gullet, throat, then mouth, leaving a steaming pile of guts at our quaking and disoriented feet) I have several tales in the works of being published. More info will follow upon their releases.
CORPSeX: A Method Of Love will be appearing in the 3rd issue of [Nameless] Magazine come early 2013. http://namelessmag.jasunni.com/
Plasmatick will be appearing in the wonderful Infernal Ink 3, to be released in April 2013. http://hydramstar.com/Infernal_Ink.html
A Poisoned Idea will be appearing in Infernal Ink 4, to be released in July 2013. http://hydramstar.com/Infernal_Ink.html
As for other news.
I have recently been hired by horror historian/fanatic and occasional Fangoria contributor Gorehound Mike to do reviews for his page Gorehound Mike's Weird Cinema Blog. I'll be doing two reviews a week, appearing on Mondays and Fridays. Come by, check it out, it's a good time. Gorehound Mike knows his stuff (and so do I, hence the position). I'm honored to have been asked aboard and look forward to "enlightening" you all as to my jaded (and often cantankerous) opinions on our beloved genre. http://gorehoundmike.blogspot.com/
Last but not least, I got word today that a particular top secret project that has been a while in the running (and which I have remained absolutely mum about) has reached a next stage in its possible fruition/developement. Fingers crossed, people. I would love to divulge a little more, but swore under threat of a forced needle-shot urethral leprosy infection that I wouldn't. The words "you'll have to sleep sometime" have never sounded so frightening, trust me.
So, yeah, news. I'll have more specifics as things progress all around.
2013 can only be better than 2012.
Which I will post a virulent rant about, perhaps come closer to the new year. Or just after. Who knows.
Thanks for reading, please join if so inclined.
STAY SICK,
Vincent D.
As the vile stink of the Christmas season permeates absolutely everything around us for the next month or so, and varied forms of true misery seem to be creeping in everywhere, it appears I have some news. Yes, an actual blog update. Like turds under the tree from the Krampus himself . . . gifts.
Firstly, come the new year (barring there isn't some hideous pole shift or something that pulls all of our innards fully and outwardly up through our gullet, throat, then mouth, leaving a steaming pile of guts at our quaking and disoriented feet) I have several tales in the works of being published. More info will follow upon their releases.
CORPSeX: A Method Of Love will be appearing in the 3rd issue of [Nameless] Magazine come early 2013. http://namelessmag.jasunni.com/
Plasmatick will be appearing in the wonderful Infernal Ink 3, to be released in April 2013. http://hydramstar.com/Infernal_Ink.html
A Poisoned Idea will be appearing in Infernal Ink 4, to be released in July 2013. http://hydramstar.com/Infernal_Ink.html
As for other news.
I have recently been hired by horror historian/fanatic and occasional Fangoria contributor Gorehound Mike to do reviews for his page Gorehound Mike's Weird Cinema Blog. I'll be doing two reviews a week, appearing on Mondays and Fridays. Come by, check it out, it's a good time. Gorehound Mike knows his stuff (and so do I, hence the position). I'm honored to have been asked aboard and look forward to "enlightening" you all as to my jaded (and often cantankerous) opinions on our beloved genre. http://gorehoundmike.blogspot.com/
Last but not least, I got word today that a particular top secret project that has been a while in the running (and which I have remained absolutely mum about) has reached a next stage in its possible fruition/developement. Fingers crossed, people. I would love to divulge a little more, but swore under threat of a forced needle-shot urethral leprosy infection that I wouldn't. The words "you'll have to sleep sometime" have never sounded so frightening, trust me.
So, yeah, news. I'll have more specifics as things progress all around.
2013 can only be better than 2012.
Which I will post a virulent rant about, perhaps come closer to the new year. Or just after. Who knows.
Thanks for reading, please join if so inclined.
STAY SICK,
Vincent D.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Book Review: THE DARK IS LIGHT ENOUGH FOR ME by John Claude Smith
I have been a fan of the writing of John Claude Smith since I first came across his work through an anthology we appeared in together (Heavy Metal Horror, published by Rymfire eBooks) a little over three years ago. My contribution was titled "Invocations To Death's Black Kiss". It was my first published piece, under the name Vince D. (Yeah, that was a shameless plug -- so what). John Claude Smith's was called "Headbangin'". I found his tale to be the most unique one in the book, something about the way it was written and presented really stood out. And it also seemed this fellow knew his stuff about music as well!
Anyway, I decided to friend the gent up on facebook, and continued to follow his work over the next couple of years. Our stories even appeared a couple more times together within the pages of the FREEZINE Of Fantasy And Science Fiction. So when I found out JC was releasing a collection of his short works, I was more than ecstatic.
The Dark Is Light Enough For Me (Martin Brown Publishing, 2011) contains twelve tales of heartbreak and resilience, of sublimation and destruction. John writes with depth and philosophy, a genuine love and passion for the fine art of the weird tale, knowing both when to hold back and when to kick it into overdrive. With synesthetic sweeps of his unrelenting and no-holds-barred prose, the true potency lies within the flawed and wholly identifiable characters he creates (and some of whom which may even create themselves). Their psychological idiosyncracies bring our lead characters into touch with all the ugly on both the inside and the out, creating complex and soul shattering confrontations within the headspace of their world from which there is no escape.
Most of the stories involve love and loss, obsession and redemption (or more appropriately the lack thereof). Rampaging ids, punishment of self and others, hurt and deceit, soul (and soulmate) death, long lost love growing even moreso, guilt. The intense and true fear in the uncertainty of knowing. Make no mistake about it, this is not light reading. This is balls-out, confrontational transgressive horror in its finest form.
Pieces like "Black Wings", "The Perceptive One" and "The Dark Is Light Enough For Me" are all psychological sucker-punch delights that bury themselves especially deep in the nooks and crannies of your grey matter, refusing to let the darkened tenacious grip release as you process what you have just subjected yourself too. I was haunted for days on end after reading many of the stories locked away within this tome.
The only tale that seemed to elude me was "Gladiatrix". While not a bad piece by any means, I just feel that it didn't flow well with the rest of the tales in the book. Without giving anything away, it's more of an actioner. By no means is it any lighter than the rest of the book, but it just really didn't pack the same philosophical punch. It's also, I believe, the shortest piece in the book, and again, not a bad story.
With all that said, John Claude Smith's The Dark Is Light Enough For Me is a superb read for the thinking fan of horror/transgressive lit. This book is a must have, that's all there is to it. Seriously, this comes with my highest recommendation and you will not be disappointed, I can guarantee you that.
It is available in both Kindle and print formats. I have mine in print and it looks great. Below are links to purchase the book on Amazon, as well as links to John Claude Smith himself.
To purchase The Dark Is Light Enough For Me:
http://www.amazon.com/Dark-Light-Enough-Me/dp/1937070107/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1352912591&sr=1-1&keywords=john+claude+smith
John Claude Smith's blog The Wilderness Within
http://thewildernesswithinbyjohnclaudesmith.blogspot.com/
John Claude Smith on Facebook
http://www.facebook.com/#!/jcsmith0919
Anyway, I decided to friend the gent up on facebook, and continued to follow his work over the next couple of years. Our stories even appeared a couple more times together within the pages of the FREEZINE Of Fantasy And Science Fiction. So when I found out JC was releasing a collection of his short works, I was more than ecstatic.
The Dark Is Light Enough For Me (Martin Brown Publishing, 2011) contains twelve tales of heartbreak and resilience, of sublimation and destruction. John writes with depth and philosophy, a genuine love and passion for the fine art of the weird tale, knowing both when to hold back and when to kick it into overdrive. With synesthetic sweeps of his unrelenting and no-holds-barred prose, the true potency lies within the flawed and wholly identifiable characters he creates (and some of whom which may even create themselves). Their psychological idiosyncracies bring our lead characters into touch with all the ugly on both the inside and the out, creating complex and soul shattering confrontations within the headspace of their world from which there is no escape.
Most of the stories involve love and loss, obsession and redemption (or more appropriately the lack thereof). Rampaging ids, punishment of self and others, hurt and deceit, soul (and soulmate) death, long lost love growing even moreso, guilt. The intense and true fear in the uncertainty of knowing. Make no mistake about it, this is not light reading. This is balls-out, confrontational transgressive horror in its finest form.
Pieces like "Black Wings", "The Perceptive One" and "The Dark Is Light Enough For Me" are all psychological sucker-punch delights that bury themselves especially deep in the nooks and crannies of your grey matter, refusing to let the darkened tenacious grip release as you process what you have just subjected yourself too. I was haunted for days on end after reading many of the stories locked away within this tome.
The only tale that seemed to elude me was "Gladiatrix". While not a bad piece by any means, I just feel that it didn't flow well with the rest of the tales in the book. Without giving anything away, it's more of an actioner. By no means is it any lighter than the rest of the book, but it just really didn't pack the same philosophical punch. It's also, I believe, the shortest piece in the book, and again, not a bad story.
With all that said, John Claude Smith's The Dark Is Light Enough For Me is a superb read for the thinking fan of horror/transgressive lit. This book is a must have, that's all there is to it. Seriously, this comes with my highest recommendation and you will not be disappointed, I can guarantee you that.
It is available in both Kindle and print formats. I have mine in print and it looks great. Below are links to purchase the book on Amazon, as well as links to John Claude Smith himself.
To purchase The Dark Is Light Enough For Me:
http://www.amazon.com/Dark-Light-Enough-Me/dp/1937070107/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1352912591&sr=1-1&keywords=john+claude+smith
John Claude Smith's blog The Wilderness Within
http://thewildernesswithinbyjohnclaudesmith.blogspot.com/
John Claude Smith on Facebook
http://www.facebook.com/#!/jcsmith0919
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
FREE New Halloween Fiction
A little something I cooked up for the holiday. I will most likely be taking it down at some point in November, so read now and enjoy. Be safe in whatever evil you may commit tonight.
Happy Halloween!
SEE YOU NEXT YEAR, MY LOVE
Halloween had always been a sacred, splendid time for Old Man Richter, especially before his beloved wife Arazella had passed away. Instead, now, the autumnal season clung to him like cold and wet late November leaves. The memories often clogged his throat with a stifled and suffocating agony, filling his limbs with a series of painful skin-tug anxiety flare-ups that made every day from the onset of the season to just after the New Year not just emotionally or spiritually grueling, but physically as well. This was hell.
Happy Halloween!
SEE YOU NEXT YEAR, MY LOVE
Halloween had always been a sacred, splendid time for Old Man Richter, especially before his beloved wife Arazella had passed away. Instead, now, the autumnal season clung to him like cold and wet late November leaves. The memories often clogged his throat with a stifled and suffocating agony, filling his limbs with a series of painful skin-tug anxiety flare-ups that made every day from the onset of the season to just after the New Year not just emotionally or spiritually grueling, but physically as well. This was hell.
This time of year had always been special for the both of them. Together they shared and understood the deep romance within the alternating scents of fresh fallen and burning leaves. Together they reveled in the cool and gray cloudy days that seemed to loom ominously from mid-October on. And together they ran Richter’s Orchard, essentially a three acre lot filled with apple trees and pumpkin patches. Located just behind their house, the establishment did incredibly well, their name becoming fairly known in the Dolton area for their fresh baked apple and pumpkin pies, their kindness, and most notably for their lavish and fun Halloween displays.
Every year they carved whatever pumpkins they didn’t sell into fun and creepy faces, lit them, and placed them in large and well organized mounds on either side of their front porch. Their large round faces burned bright with the love and peaceful tenderness the Richter’s shared for each other, and the season, drawing people from miles around. The soft orange flickering light would reflect iridescently off the smiling faces of trick-or-treaters and their chaperones. Hanging (on unseen pulleys) just on the inside of the jack-o’-mounds were silly sheet ghosts, cast in both the lights of the jack-o’-mounds and the eerie blue and red lights that illuminated the inside front porch. Old Man Richter would hide up there in the shadows, pulling on the strings so the ghosts would seem to float down at the trick-or-treaters, sending them into gales of uproarious sugar-rush laughter. Arazella would slither out from the eerie lights, dressed as a creepy witch, her lips covered in black glitter lipstick. She would disperse fresh cakes of apple and pumpkin, homemade candy corn, caramel apples, marshmallow treats, and small cups of fresh hot cider from the boiling cauldron kettle that toiled and troubled beside her. Everything smelled of cinnamon and brown sugar, of apple and pumpkin and maple and molasses. Funny thing about Arazella’s Halloween witch shtick was that she was, in fact, a witch . . . a healer and lover of all things nature and beauty. A nurturer and, when need be, a punisher. She was Richter’s Goddess and soul mate and reason for living.
Old man Richter felt truly lost without Arazella by his side. After the cancer had taken her he sunk into a deep, horrid depression from which he never fully recovered. It had worn on him hard to watch her body wither away, to be consumed from the inside out by this tumorous monstrosity. Every part of her seemed to just fade away a bit more every day . . . every part of her, that is, but her shining spirit.
He spent those long and cold winter months after her passing, that brutal holiday season, consuming whiskey and Arazella’s left over pain medications. He did anything he could to not have to face head-on the unbearable heartache and quaking loneliness that raged so deep within him. He would spend long nights in the bitter cold, not even feeling it due to the narco-numb, with his arms wrapped around her memorial stone, his face pressed against the cold and smooth polished marble surface, crying deep and heavy sobs into the early daylight hours and longing merely for a kiss on his cheek. He even contemplated suicide, but had thought better of it, feeling Arazella’s preternatural disapproval of the idea in every molecule of the air he breathed in.
Come spring he snapped out of it a bit, fighting through the bitterness to keep the intense misery at bay. He scattered her ashes on the ground of the pumpkin patch, as she had requested, just before he had tilled it over and planted. It was incredibly difficult to do alone, as he was in his mid-sixties. But he was bound and determined to put up some form of pumpkin mounds outside his house, to appease both Arazella’s spirit and the children, which they could never have. Arazella had been barren in life, a large part of the reason why that holiday in particular had meant so much to them (beyond their spiritual leanings of course). It was the eternal essence of releasing the inner child. A night you could be yourself with absolutely no judgments from the world around you.
Arazella wanted her ashes in the pumpkin patch in order to fertilize the ground, to create little lives that would bring nothing but happiness and joy to others, which it pained her so not to be able to achieve on this plane. It was a beautiful sentiment of positive energy in the face of truly, deeply mixed emotions. That was why Old Man Richter had loved her so.
Into the hot summer months, Richter had hired James, a slovenly, alcoholic wretch of spoiled, seventeen year old snot. There was no way the Old Man could do all that labor by himself, and this kid worked cheap. He was a necessity. Things started off sketchily immediately, the boy always intoxicated on cheap pilfered liquor or huffed gasoline and paint fumes, being lazy and lethargic and argumentative and, worst of all, clumsy, all over Richter’s growing grounds. There was backtalk, smart assing and sass. The Old Man didn’t have the patience of his wife (who would have merely just turned his own words against him), and was quick to temper at the boy, albeit justifiably so.
But Richter needed the help, with the harvest just around the corner. So he tolerated James the best he could. Until one late August day he caught the boy in the house, with his girlfriend Janice. They were in Richter’s bedroom, pocketing money and coin, Arazella’s jewelry, and even the Old Man’s stash of cannabis he kept around for sleep and relaxation. “Quick, hide the stash, it’s Old Man Richter!” James yelped as Richter caught them.
Worst of all in this utmost betrayal of an already loose and necessitated trust, the bed, which stilled smelled of Arazella, had obviously been used for their own lusts. A conspicuous slimy wetness was soaking into the mattress, on Arazella’s side of the bed . . . the spot where she died. He lashed out at the boy, James emptying everything from his pockets except the stash, which he threatened to tell people that Richter had sold him. Richter came at the boy and his skuzzy girlfriend, chasing them out of his house. Richter ran out to the porch with his fist raised, bellowing “Get offa my lawn!” at the top of his lungs, straining his throat. James threatened to come back and trash everything, and the two ran off down the driveway parking lot. Richter merely went back in the house, began to clean up the wet spot, and wept.
By October 30th, Richter had managed to do almost everything himself. He harvested and sold his pumpkins and apples, and even carved what was left. The faces no longer had the same chipper creepiness but wore long, saddened expressions, resembling forsaken ghouls lost forever in the lonely cold of an eternal midnight. Their inner glow no longer seemed as bright, and the ghosts that hung on either side looked merely like hung sheets with black-marker eyes. They would not be flying this year, merely swaying in the cool breeze. He did manage to build the mounds. Standing back to check his work, he noticed it all seemed so very lifeless, so empty. Arazella had said, before she passed, that her spirit would always be there, in their “pumpkin children”, in the love of this season and all others, but he had yet to feel it. So he went into the house and watched classic scary movies until he fell asleep.
At roughly 3 a.m., Richter was awoken by several loud thudding sounds. He sat up on the couch, remaining silent and listened closely, acutely. At the loud shatter of breaking glass he jumped up and ran outside, throwing the porch lights on. There were James and Janice, smashing jack o’lanterns and beer bottles all over Arazella’s memorial stone. In fact, it even looked like the boy was zipping up his jeans, having urinated on the now filth encrusted memoriam. With the bright of the porch lights turning on, the two began to skitter away into the darkness. In a fit of sheer rage Richter grabbed a small and uncarved decorative pumpkin and tossed it full force at the little destructive bastard as he fled.
The pumpkin nailed James square in the back of the head, exploding it’s guts all over the kid and sending him into a full on face plant. Janice stopped running and began laughing and pointing at her fallen comrade, proving there is no honor among thieves. James stood up and gave the Old Man a burning stare down, his nose bleeding, pumpkin gore drizzling down his salty face. He pointed, growling out “Tonight, Old Man Richter, just you wait. You’re done.” The two then sauntered off into the night.
Richter went and surveyed the damage to the memorial stone. It was covered in smashed jack- o’-lantern and broken glass, urine and dirt. The feeling within him was no longer one of depression or anxiety or sadness, but one of violation, intrusion, and rage. He spent hours cleaning the stone back to shining perfection, cleaning out every groove of every engraved letter. He went back into the house and laid back down on the couch, his mind performing a slow burn and his muscles tense with the need for retribution. But he knew better, this kid was true trouble. He swallowed it all the best he could, and tried to get lost in some long stashed pain pills, a few shots of whiskey, and The Creature From The Black Lagoon on the t.v. The old man was just tired, had no more tears to shed.
Halloween night finally came around. Richter was exhausted, his mind a buzzing hive of simmering anger and too many thoughts. He played nice for the families, lighting his depressive jack-o’-mounds and leaving out baskets of prepackaged candies for the children to have at. There were no cakes or marshmallow treats, donuts or candy apples or hot cauldron cider. There was no longer a sweetly sinister witch with black glitter lips to feed the little ghosties and devils and ghouls and princesses that wandered the long and beautiful full moon night. There were dancing ghosts. There were only still sheets and piles of sad glowing faces and fun size Snickers.
By 9 p.m. it seemed that the trick or treating festivities had come to an end. Richter was inside the house, drinking a bit, smoking up, and doing what he could to cope with his first holiday alone since the late 1960’s. He was watching John Carpenter’s Prince Of Darkness, the only light coming from his flickering television . . . and waiting.
It wasn’t long before he could hear footsteps outside in the gravel of his driveway, rustling through the leaves. Footsteps creeping up slowly, slyly onto his porch. He could hear the whispering voices of two teenagers fucking with the wrong Old Man.
THUD! Something large and wet had slammed his outside screen door. He got up and silently marched over to the door and opened it. He could see and smell the shit sliming its way down the glass. He could also see the burning bag of doodie right there on the porch. With a quick panic reaction he threw the door open and began to stomp on the flaming bag of stinking human waste. He was stomping with such fury that he threw out his back, and with a bellow slipped and fell, smacking his head on the floorboards. He couldn’t move, felt paralyzed with pain all through his body. “MY BACK!” he managed to bark out involuntarily.
“Ha! Old fool. We’re gonna fuck this shit shack up, you old prick!” James bellowed. He and his girl began to whack Arazella’s memorial stone with twenty pound sledgehammers, large chunks of the fine marble exploding every which way with each loud ping of a contact point.
Richter could only lay there, incapacitated, watching and too immobile to make it stop. His head was beginning to feel woozy, and he wasn’t quite sure what it was that was happening right before he completely lost consciousness. It was, however, one of the most odd things his eyes had ever bore witness too.
James and Janice were completely involved in the total destruction of the stone, when Janice noticed a bright orange glow, increasing in intensity, reflecting off the chipped rock.
“James?”
“What!”
“The jack-o’-lanterns are all facing us. They weren’t doing that before.” James noticed she was no longer beating on the memorial stone.
“C’mon, hurry up! The old man’s out cold and we ain’t got all night!”
“JAMES!”
He finally turned and saw that the jack-o’-mounds were indeed facing them. “So what, probably one his stupid infantile Halloween gimmicks.”
“I think we should stop . . .” Her voice wavered like th terrified little girl she really was.
James dropped his sledge with annoyance. “Will you stop? They’re just pumpkins!” He walked over and grabbed the nearest one, thrusting his hand into its carved sad mouth. He picked it up and said “Look!” as he obnoxiously waved it in Janice’s face. As he reeled his arm back to hurl it, he noticed the expression on the face of the jack-o’-lantern twist into a horrific grimace, a kind of mean he had never seen before. Its mouth snarled up like that of an enraged wolf, and it bit down on the son of a bitch’s right hand. He shrieked a wordless sound and ran in a circle, trying in vain to get the clamped gourd off.
The jack-o’-lantern only came off when James’ hand did.
Janice looked to the mounds and they were all rolling off of each other, rolling toward them. Their faces were grimaced and mocking, just as the first biter’s had been. She was frozen in place with stark and paramount terror as they approached her.
James merely fell to his knees, clutching his bloody stump.
The jack-o’-lanterns surrounded them, creating a small circular wall around the two as they froze, both in different states of shock but shock nonetheless. Jack did not see the two sheet-ghosts slowly dislodge themselves from the front porch, but Janice did. As they started to float over, their faces also became something more than two marker eyes on white sheet. These sheets were now alive and their visages had become that of tortured souls looking to share the wealth, part hateful smile and part vengeful snarl. Janice’s flight response finally kicked in and she tried to run and jump over the rolling, ever so closely encircling wall of carved demon pumpkins.
With a sudden and unexpected rapid-fire machine gun burst, the pumpkins all began to spit flaming hot seeds into the eyes of Janice and James. Janice brought her hands to her face with a howl and also now fell to her knees. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she whimpered from behind her hands.
As for James, the extreme trauma of losing his hand (and his loss of blood from the dismemberment) seemed to cancel out all other stimuli in his new little world of agony.
Neither one of them noticed the sheets drop slightly over the jack-o’-lanterns glowing mouths, and neither one noticed that the floating ghost sheets had caught fire until each sheet draped over the two of them. James merely curled into a silent shivering ball, while Janice began to do a dance of seared suffering beneath the flaming sheet. The jack-o’-lantern wall edged even closer, the angry gourds rolling on top of one another like some kind of strange orange vegetable igloo. Then darkness . . . silence.
When Old Man Richter had finally awoken, the first rays of light were beginning to show in the sky. He sat up, almost no pain present in his back. Still a little woozy, he shook his head out, trying to recall what the hell had happened. The boy, he remembered, and that awful girl. Arazella’s stone.
He walked over to the stone and saw on the ground two sledgehammers right next to his two ghost sheets that for some inexplicable reason (to his mind) were no longer on the porch. They appeared to be a little singed on the edges, and they were covered in a strange black glitter. He then noticed the pumpkin mounds, and they seemed to have been moved. Also, their faces were different. They no longer wore the moribund frowns of lonely soullessness, but instead seemed to be filled with life. They were now smiling. And they each also had a light coating of black glitter around the tops.
Dick Richter went over to his wife’s stone, amazed and even elated to see not a single scratch in it. The smooth marble was so polished in fact that he could clearly see his reflection in the light of the early morning. He looked into his perfect reflection closely, and noticed on his right cheek a large black glitter lipstick kiss. Tears began to stream from his eyes, and he watched the jack-o’-lantern children roll up around his legs, smiling their silly cheerful grins at him. Seed tears of seed and pulped sluiced from their joyous, shining eyes.
The pain was leaving, that constant tug of loneliness and misery was lifting like a wedding veil between two worlds. His body was not aching, his mind not racing. Arazella had always been with him. He looked back to the stone and noticed, written in the same black glitter that kissy-smudged his cheek, Arazella’s words of sweetness and truth and eternity: SEE YOU NEXT YEAR, MY LOVE XOXOXO.
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