THE EMISSARY Goes Live!

The Kindle version of the new book is up and available for pre-order. The paperback should pop up in a day, maybe two. It's good to see a new book come to print, since it has been a couple of years since my last novel.

From the author of THE FLOCK comes THE EMISSARY, a novel of modern fantasy and horror.

In the North Carolina mountains the town of Jasperton has lost a fading enchantment that has protected it for almost one hundred years from an ancient curse. Martin and Amy Braun, separated, and their marriage almost at an end over the death of their young son, suddenly find themselves reunited to care for a lost child who bears a striking resemblance to their deceased boy. As the town begins to fall victim to the rising influence of an aged evil, they must decide if the child is an emissary for salvation, or for the malignant forces gathering within the town.

THE EMISSARY by James Robert Smith. I was very, very happy with the cover art!

Work Ethic

I wrote my first novel on an electric typewriter. It took me nine months. Yeah, yeah...the whole "nine months" thing, but it's true.

Around the first week of May 2016 I started my latest novel. I don't recall the exact date, but in that first week. These days, of course, I use a very good word processor (as I have for decades, now) so work is easier. Today, I finished the new book. This is the quickest I've ever written a novel.

And, yes, I'm pleased with myself, and the work.

Without too much delay (I was also editing and revising the book every day), I sent it to my agent via email. With the first novel I had to make photocopies, box it up, and mail it to editors and literary agents one at a time. These days...just attach the file and click a button and it's on the other side of the planet almost instantly.

At any rate...I suppose I should get started on the next one, since what my agent and I want to do is pitch the book as the first in a series.

Work! I love it!

The Counselor, the latest chapter from TICKS.

Being the third chapter (first draft) in my latest novel-in-progress, TICKS.

THE COUNSELOR

By James Robert Smith

She picked up the office phone immediately. She had an old style with handset and cord. Why? She had wondered that often, and couldn’t think of any reason for it, other than nostalgia. And it wasn’t nostalgia from her own youth, because by the time she had been born almost no one used that kind of clumsy contraption anymore. The instrument rang once before she had it to her ear.

“Loraine Gaskins,” she said. She hadn’t even bothered to glance at the ID pad to see who was calling her this early, and now that she did she realized that the readout was blank. Damn. That meant only one thing.

“Dr. Gaskins,” the voice on the other end told her. She recognized him instantly with some distaste. She only spoke to him occasionally and generally when her time with the Agent was going to be either cancelled or curtailed. “This is Mills, over at the Service,” he told her. As if there was only one government service of any importance and he was gainfully employed directing the local branch.

“Yes, Mr. Mills. I recognize your voice.” She tried to speak through clamped jaws, but it wasn’t coming off too well. She always made certain that she had cleared her schedule of all other matters on days when she was going to counsel her superman, and now she knew that he would not show. “I take it my morning appointment will not be kept?”

“I’m afraid that it is so,” Mills told her. She could imagine his dark features in a Spartan office somewhere in a tower some miles distant. The IDS never marked their headquarters or their mobile offices. It was all strictly secret, even if their most prominent members were there for everyone to see. Of course, that had always been the plan. What good was it to have Enhanced Humans around to protect the population if the people couldn’t see them?

She found herself twirling the plastic cord on the handset around her left index finger. She knew that she shouldn’t do that; the material was growing ever more stressed and prone to tangle because of it. But she couldn’t help herself.

“No chance to rescheduling later today?” she asked, hopefully.

Mills actually chuckled on his end. “I’m afraid not, Dr. Gaskins.”

“A bad situation? Like the one he faced yesterday?” Without looking, she stepped back until she felt her bare calves meet her office chair and then she settled into it with a barely repressed sigh. The Agent was gold to her. She never failed to be both mystified and impressed by her interviews with him.

“You know I can’t comment on such things.” She imagined his dark face again, uncomfortable with even the idea of sharing classified information. “I’m sure Agent 67 will tell you about his work when he can make another appointment.”

“And that would be?”

“That would be telling, Dr. Gaskins, and you know we don’t do that sort of thing.”

She hated Mills. He seemed to enjoy monopolizing the Agent’s time.

“Very well,” she finally said. “But, Mills,” she added, afraid that he would suddenly cut the connection.

“Yes?”

“I’ll still be available. If, by some chance, the appointment could be rescheduled today.” She winced, wishing she hadn’t said it as soon as the words had left her mouth. Sometimes she acted like a lovelorn schoolgirl when it came to her patient. Like so many involved with that man, she had been hired specifically and exclusively to minister to only the Agent.

“Of course, Dr. Gaskins,” Mills said. She could see him grinning at her on the other end, wherever that was. He had perfectly straight, perfectly symmetrical, perfectly white teeth, she recalled. All thirty-two of them flawless. And all bared in amusement at her silly performance. “You’ll receive a prompt when you need to get in touch with Agent 67,” he told her.

And then the line did go dead and there was no longer a chance to speak, to negotiate, to beg.

“Shit,” she said.

*

Ten miles from Gaskins Mills looked across his own desk and addressed one of his junior agents. Small “a” agent. Not the big guy. Not the one who counted most. Not the walking, talking, take-no-prisoners bonafide super-human Agent. This was just a regular field associate new to the area. William Tanger, two months out of college. A good kid with a good attitude and a simple education in Criminal Law.

“What’s so funny?” the man asked, a bemused expression on a young face seemingly cut from flesh someone had molded to be obviously Germanic. To Mills, the kid looked like that Nazi soldier who climbed out of the Tiger tank in that Clint Eastwood comedy from his grandfather’s days.

“Just the psychologist who sees Agent 67,” Mills said. “You’ll meet her at some point, so it’s no harm for me to tell you about her. I have to write my reports on her, just as she has to turn in her notes about our resident superman.” He cleared his throat and tried to wipe the grin from his face. “It’s just that she has some real issues with him.”

“What? She doesn’t like him? I’ve always heard that there’s something worked into their genetic string that creates…I don’t know…some kind of positive charisma, or something. Isn’t that true about them?” The kid was genuinely puzzled.

“Far from it, Tanger,” Mills said. He brushed some lint from his otherwise spotless dark blue suit. The fabric was, in fact, so dark blue as to be almost black. “I mean, yes to your second question. All Agents are imminently likable. But as for Gaksins...she’s actually hooked on him some way.”

The kid made a sophomoric motion with his right index finger and the “O” shape he’d made with his left hand.

“Hell, no,” Mills exclaimed. “You’d better believe that would never happen. Not only does Gaskins know better, but they cook these Agents up to be Boy Scouts. I swear to Almighty God they do no wrong. Their only purpose on this Earth is to protect us.” Mills motioned, pointing back and forth between Tanger and himself. “We are the end-all and be-all of their existences. You need to keep that in mind. Agents are here to protect us and to do the right thing where we’re concerned.”

Tanger was nodding. “Then what’s her problem?”

Mills smiled. “Don’t get me wrong. She might not bang the Agent…but I can guarantee you that she would if she could. My bet is that she’s as wet as a towel in a steam room every time he goes in for one of their gab sessions.”

“Oh,” Tanger said.

“Well, that’s enough of that. I’m sure you’ll meet her someday, so forget I said anything. She’s pretty damned good at her job and she’ll be able to spell your personality into a perfect single paragraph when you finally do meet her. And that’ll all be from you just walking into the room.

“I see,” Tanger replied. He made a fluttering motion with his hands. “It’s all forgotten. Gaskins who?”

“Good man,” Mills said. The director stood then, towering over his desk, towering over his junior associate, and suddenly all but blotting out the big painting of his wife and son that hung on the wall behind him. “We’ve got work to do.”

Looking like the college lineman he once was, Director Erwin Mills walked across the room, opened the door for his new trainee, and allowed the youth to precede him through the exit. “We’ve got to head to where the action is going to be.”

“Will it be a sure thing, then?” Tanger looked up at his hulking boss.

“Yes, it will. You will get to see Agent 67 in full, monster-killing action. There will be much bloody violence and absolutely no prisoners taken.”

“None?” the kid asked. He’d been told earlier that they needed to hang onto a few for questions and live dissection.

“Not today. More than likely, it’s ticks again. And we don’t need no stinking ticks.” Then the director paused, considering possibilities. "Unless there are some old type bloodsuckers in the mix. The Agent will likely just incapacitate some, if he can, and bring us one or two." He thought. "Probably just one, really. I don't think I've ever seen him spare more than one, and that's only when he was specifically ordered to do so."

"I swear to Almighty God they do no wrong."

The Revolutionary, A Super-Hero Project

I'm always busy. Here's a bit of an introduction I penned a few months ago for a project I've had in mind for a long time. Until I finish THE REZ, it will have to remain in waiting.

THE REVOLUTIONARY

By James Robert Smith

And if there's any hope for America, it lies in a revolution, and if there's any hope for a revolution in America, it lies in getting Elvis Presley to become Che Guevara.

Phil Ochs

I look at the face in the dingy mirror. It’s a good face. Different from the others I wear, but a good one all the same.

Simon B. calls it the Hyde-Super-Jekyll Effect. But others don’t call me that. The folk call me The Revolutionary. As if I’m the only one.

And that’s okay. I suppose I’ve been called worse. And it’s not entirely accurate. I didn’t start out wanting any kind of revolution, or much in the way of social change of that sort. All I was after—and all that I’m still after when you get right down to it—is justice. If the result of my efforts is a mass revolution; well, they had it coming.

My Mr. Hyde face is gone. I stand before that grimy mirror in that filthy bathroom and gaze into the water-spotted, rust-pocked surface. If I ever showed this face, none would be likely to forget it. The dark hair, almost black, is not long: barely touches my ears and the back of my neck. The nose is strong and was formerly aquiline; but it’s obviously been broken a few times—three that I can recall. These lips are like thin, darker lines drawn across that square chin, below strong cheekbones that look born of some Navajo chieftain. And the eyes—piercing as any, black like polished jet.

A pity that no one ever sees that face—other than myself and Simon B. and a few who find themselves targeted by me. Everyone else—all everyone else sees is the mask. Not this flesh and blood mask, but the one that I wear made of synthetic cloth, shatterproof plastic, plexiglass lenses.

I’m a sight all dressed up in my outfit of black cloth.

The underground rags say I’m a superhero. The real deal. Fantasy come to life. Kids apparently adore me and draw pictures of me in notebooks. There would probably be posters of me for sale in comic book shops and toy stores if the authorities allowed those images to be marketed. But they don’t think I’m a superhero, or any kind of hero.

The media, and their puppet-masters, call me a terrorist. They say I am, at best, a super-villain made flesh and blood. They say that I am a criminal and they scream for my head. They’re right, too. I want my enemies to think of me that way.

I want them to live in fear, to be terrorized. I want them all to piss their pants every time a board creaks in their Victorian mansions. I want them to shit their britches each time an unexpected movement enters their peripheral vision when they’re in their penthouses.

And then I want to kill them all.

I’m very good at that.

*

Bernard Sommers had been hearing rumors for some time before he got any actual information from security. It would have to come up during his trip to Costa Rica with Sandy.

Sandy was a worldly 19 years old. Perfectly built, perfectly blonde, and perfectly obedient—everything his wife was not. He had been expecting a couple of weeks of non-stop fun with the girl. Since he’d met her some months before, he’d thought of her as nearly sexually insatiable. They matched that way. Of course it could merely have been that his green-eyed shiksa was acting, but he rather doubted it.

The thing was, he’d been hoping for days and days of being lost in the pleasures of her flesh—and now this.

“You need to listen to this, Mr. Sommers. This is serious.” The man delivering the information was indeed serious. Sommers had rarely seen him crack so much as a hint of a smile. He was, like Sandy, blonde. But where she was perfectly feminine and delightful, Armin Fields was disconcertingly masculine and genuinely menacing.

Sommers nodded his great, bushy head, knitting his dark brows. “I know perfectly well that you mean what you say, Fields.” He made eye contact with his faithful employee. Fields’ hair was buzzed military style, his gaze steely, his gut flat, long of leg, broad in the shoulder, arms bulging with more than an adequate complement of muscle tissue. He probably had a huge cock, but Bernie didn’t want to know. It was enough that his hired blue-eyed Aryan protector was to be physically respected.

“There have been exactly twenty-four attacks, now. Because of the fact that the first six deaths were of men retired from the corporation, and then others were men who were involved in other lines not directly tied to you, we were delayed in making the connection.” He placed his finger on the printout that he’d placed on the disk in his employer’s rented palace.

Sommers had to look at the slim stack of papers again. “Jack Pierce, third Baron of Trentwell,” he said.

How Many Novels?

After spending many years writing short stories I was always trying to learn to write novels. And it took me some time to construct a novel that I was able to sell. It was a long, strange struggle for me.

Since the sale of that novel (THE FLOCK), I have written very few short stories. Part of this is due to the fact that there are so few markets for short stories these days. Even when I was actively writing them, the markets were not so many and the competition extremely fierce for open slots. These days the anthologies and the magazines that I used to try to crack are mainly gone. Now there is the self-publishing world of crap and muck and I refuse to take part in that hideous and noxious game.

Two days ago I finished my latest novel, THE NEW ECOLOGY OF DEATH. It's based on a story that I wrote when I was a very young man

and which failed to sell in text form. I did, however, sell it in comic script format to Stephen R Bissette's legendary comic book anthology, TABOO. The story was a song of praise and admiration for the zombie mythos created by George A. Romero and to a specific B-class horror movie that influenced me as a kid: "Fiend Without a Face". I combined images conjured by those two influences and came up with THE NEW ECOLOGY OF DEATH. In a way, I was writing zombie yarns long before the current wave of zombie fiction. I just hadn't sold any of it until "The New Ecology of Death" saw print in TABOO.

And now I have completed transforming those ideas from that story into a novel. Someone recently asked me how many novels I've sold. I had to admit that I didn't know. For some reason--compared to most other writers I encounter--I don't actually have the ego of a writer. Just about every other writer I have known walk about thumping their chests and going on and on about their work. It's probably why I can't stand the company of other writers and stopped attending science-fiction conventions. But I was actually flummoxed. I hadn't sat down to count the novels I'd sold, just as I long ago stopped counting the number of short stories I have sold.

So. How many is it? I've sold THE FLOCK, THE CLAN (sequel to THE FLOCK), THE COALITION Series (three novellas making up one novel), HISSMELINA (my favorite of my novels, but my poorest selling), THE LIVING END, WITHERING, and THE NEW ECOLOGY OF DEATH. So...seven novels. That's not bad, I reckon.

A few years back I even optioned the movie rights to my first novel to Warner Brothers via Don Murphy and John Wells. I'm still waiting to hear that it has received the green light to make its way to the screen. But one of my old writer friends told me that even if that day never comes, I at least got farther in that direction than he did, and he'd sold more than thirty novels.

And how many short stories have I sold? I honestly cannot say. When I was younger I would keep a tally of my sales to various small press magazines, slick professional mags, and anthologies. But then I actually got tired of that. I stopped counting. All I can say with any degree of confidence is that I've sold somewhere between sixty-something and seventy-something stories. What can I say?

(I'd like to post images for the covers of THE NEW ECOLOGY OF DEATH and THE CLAN, but neither of those has seen print yet. They're coming...I just don't have the images for them.)

"AT LAST! A ZOMBIE NOVEL WITH BRAINS AS WELL AS GUTS!" THE LIVING END.

"Often the monster is just a misunderstood anti-hero. But sometimes it's murdering, blood-thirsty asshole!" WITHERING.