tom johnstone

“Nothing Is Over! Nothing!”

/ Clint Smith / Leave a comment
Nightscript, Vol. VI and Oculus Sinister: An Anthology of Occular Horror

Of course I’m referring to the continued aura of autumn and the lingering essence of Halloween.  As such, I’ve gratefully received copies of C.M. Muller’s annual installment Nightscript (this season marking volume six) and Oculus Sinister:  An Anthology of Ocular Horror (both published under Chthonic Matter).

And though I’m eager to wade into these tales, this post is more of a celebration of C.M. Muller’s continued (and inexhaustible) dedication to quality, integrity, and professionalism.  Having had some kindred proximity to this writer, editor, and publisher since 2013, Muller continues to produce products that are dependable in their high-quality content, and reflect a tangible and durable aesthetic.  It’s comforting to have those spines lining my shelves, but it’s also rewarding to recognize, on those pages, the names of so many dependable practitioners on contemporary fiction, many of which are genuine, personal inspirations.  

So come on: Give this Scrivener some support by snatching up a volume or three at woefully reasonable prices:

TWICE-TOLD: A Collection of Doubles

/ Clint Smith / Leave a comment

 

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With the recent release of C.M. Muller‘s Twice-Told:  A Collection of Doubles the estimable Des Lewis is conducting another venerable “real time” review dedicated to the anthology.  Here’s a portion of what he has to say about my contribution, “Details That Would Otherwise Be Lost to Shadow”:

[B]oundaries here in a residential area explicitly akin to sovereignty of identity and today’s nationalism. Whatever I go on to say, this remains a totally compelling first-person narration by a woman, self-seeking as well as self-conscious, ruthless in her ambition and optimisation of her nuclear family, husband and daughter. […] Finds herself in the house opposite where she had not yet met whomsoever lived there – a house described by her in a wondrously hypnotic mannered way, a sort of House of Leaves blended with something completely unique, with fleeting shadows and angles […] She foolhardily leaves her signature as it were, some written boundary of statically unique self-identity, on ‘stationary’ as stationery inside this house, a house aptly named Motley House […] another Clint Smith work to cherish. If I tell you more, I would spoil it.

Snag a copy (Kindle, paperback) here:

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