Tuesday, March 31, 2009
"Come on!" he said, pulling, tugging, yanking, jerking . . . seaweed collecting around the reel as he struggled against wind, weight and water.
Exhasuted, John sat for a few seconds as his catch flopped around, cursing him. He mustered enough strength to remove the hook from the inside of his grandmother's cheek, then rolled her back into the Atlantic.
But of what?
I was having dreams of particularly loving sex (very little blood) along the luminous surf of a deserted beach in Hawaii. I remember at the time I was mentally ignoring my dream-partner, slamming away and concentrating on a single memory to fuel my dying erection.
1986… the plump calves and springy sneakers of High school cheerleaders, me hiding under the bleachers, catching a glimpse up red skirts at long legs, masturbating furiously…
I woke up, glad to see those same legs next to me, rotten to bone, wrapped around my body and hanging from meat-hooks on my wall.
There was no dream girl. This was not Hawaii… this was my filthy basement in Upstate California.
I was not a lover, I was a killer.
That sonic taste…
The waking nightmare I’ve grown to love. The detailed shadows of moonlit grass against stucco walls. The sounds of silence.
I stopped licking the lawndirt and put my cock back in my pants. Despite the late hours… this was suburbia, and there were watchers in every window.
I thought of that old rhyme my mother had sung to me as a boy:
Watch the watchers
Watch them well
They are always watching you
Watch the watchers
Watch them well
For you are now a watcher too
I realized my knife hand had begun a slow pumping motion.
I put my cock back in my pants.
I came in through the bathroom window, humming a tune by a similar name.
I killed her children first. Sharp ,swift cuts. Painless.
A merciful stabbing.
Cute little things that made funny noises when they died.
I moved into her bedroom and slit her husband's throat. She didn’t wake up; I knew what I was doing.
I took out her miniature poodle out with a piano wire for purely comedic reasons, then hastily returned to her bedside, watching her stir in the growing crimson of the man she loved.
I wanted to fuck her right then and there in his pooling blood (and would had no moral qualms about doing so) but I knew very well I would be unable maintain my erection in her presence.
She wasn’t like the others. She was special.
(I almost chuckled to myself.)
I have the names of everyone she’s ever loved written down on a neat little list... I’ll scratch them off one by one just to see her in a funeral dress.
~The rest of the pages are blank or stained with blood.~
The cocktail of drugs I'm on is not hallucinatory in the least, but luckily for me, my sanity is quickly slipping. And madness, as a wise man once said, is a drug.
The bars become snakes and my filthy bedroll opens like mouth, teeth gnashing, gum-rotten gums sporting pustules in spore-like formations. I take another sip of my Tea.
My mood has now improved slightly. By the time my folding chair begins to consume me in small, loving, bites... I think I have an idea for another story.
A knock on the slippery-green, flesh covered cell door , it's bars hugged by some thin mucus that hardens with fright at the orderly's knock. "Mr. Novac, it's time for your treatment."
Or at least I did.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Track #2 is the best for driving through thunderstorms. I'll be swishing through the downpour, waves crashing against the windshield - giving the wipers quite a task - and I can't shake the urge to hang an anchor out the window and fire cannons at trucks. I might board a car full of college kids to steal their money, booze, and wenches. Then leave the rest to sink in the ditch.
After a long day's work, I could then dock at the nearest convenience store for some energy drinks and pork rinds. But alas, the storage rooms are full of cannibals, waiting to ambush me.
Have you recently eaten a gas station hot dog? How did I taste?
They also shit and piss freely in the alleyways, but no one writes songs about it. No one wants to see.
In France, the celebrated cafes and bistros serve rotted fish heads with cream of maggot soup. It is nothing like the illustrious paradise depicted in magazines, brochures, film and television. It is not a hallmark of grace where each young American can come and loss his or herself, for just a moment, into the woodwork of the Old World.
In France, it is a continual war zone. A young Frenchman with a pencil-thin mustache and a beret (all Frenchmen have pencil-thin mustaches and berets. Just as all French women have hairy armpits and bushes. This much holds true.) hoists a bazooka atop his shoulder and blasts apart a storefront window. Hairy naked French women squeal with glee, like wood nymphs, and rush into the store and grab long loafs of bread, bottles of wine and elegant cigarette holders.
In France, they keep tight lips about what really happens. In France, they do well by lying to those who want to be lied to, who are easy to lie to.
And young, beautiful Americans continue writing songs. Restless students, drunk with their own wanderlust and daydream, continue clutching their brochures and magazines amorously. Continue visiting the bistros, savoring the richness of the soup. Continue skiing the Alps, until they hit a rock, and fall down and die. Then they float a million miles through space into Heaven where they are greeted by God, Jesus, the apostles and the living dead.
Julia held her hands out, palms facing upward.
With a look of deep concentration he took the splinters out of here fingertips one by one.
“Well, it looks like we are done for today. I’ll be seeing you tomorrow correct?”
Julia simply nodded her head. She grabbed her purse and waved before heading back home.
The doctor didn’t know what to make of Julia. She was an anomaly an object of curio. Everyday for the last three months she came in fingertips covered in splinters. No explanation, no excuses, just those delicate fingers.
“Janet I’m going out for a little bit. Can you cover for me?”
“Thanks.” The doctor grabbed his coat and left entering the night.
He stuffed his hands into his pockets and walked fast trying to warm his body up. Julia wasn’t too far ahead. He kept a comfortable distance as he trailed her to her home.
Julia stepped inside.
A few minutes later she walked around the kitchen making things shake and clatter. More time passed and the doctor began to feel like a voyeur. He felt like dirt so he left feeling cold and empty both inside and out.
As night deepened, Julia crawled into her bed. She felt the stiffness of shadows enclose the room and the cold bark clutched her hands in its own seeking warmth.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
His wood floors were scratched beyond repair, but the sounds made by the sliding couch, chairs, computer table, TV stand and bookcases sounded sweeter with each passing night.
In the apartment below, a couple (who dressed as if it were the Roaring Twenties) danced to the sounds coming from their ceiling.
One night they found their dog's body hanging limp over the toilet seat; despite the apparent suicide, they continued to dance whenever the furniture music began.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
There were a lot of Jewish gangstas in
I wasted no time and as soon he opened his door I pounced, pistol to the temple and just a slight squeeze. When the bullet hit his head it was like a sledgehammer hitting a slightly off watermelon. It was a good thing the power of the blast knocked him back into the car because cleaning pieces of skull attached to jewfro out of the gravel would have been a real pain in the ass.
So his head was mostly gone, the bottom part of his jaw was intact, even his teeth were still there. His bottom lip was starting to sag since there nothing holding it up. There was still plenty of body to be found so I had to think quickly, I didn’t want to drive a Cadillac with blown out brain upholstery very far.
I got in the Cadillac sliding Phil over to the passenger seat. I should’ve got a hat because pieces of Phil were still dripping off the ceiling; I thought about it for a second and decided it was worth it to get a towel, rubber gloves, hat and change of clothes. This time when I got in the car I noticed the meat smell, it had only been like 45 minutes but it was a very humid summer. Flies were all over Phil like he was some kind piece of meat…your right he is. Whatever.
I got the car on the road about 35 flies decided they were along for the ride by now, they had taken to buzzing grey matter spread through out the inside of the car. I should had gotten a fly swatter when I went back in the house I could bag them all without aiming.
The road was empty of cars, which was good because in the headlights of an oncoming car things would have looked pretty bad considering Phil was missing most of his head. I didn’t think ‘he’s just drunk officer’ or ‘man did he puke his guts out’ would work tonight so when I got up to the dock at lake meadows I was fucking stoked.
There was a dock that was rarely used behind an old redneck bait, tackle and café called the porthole inn. The 33 styles of Catfish had a loyal following that, with each passing year succumbed to various heart problems. It also meant that the porthole didn’t bother staying open late. This time of night it was deader than Dale Earnheart. The perfect place to put a body and it’s automobile resting place to the bottom.
I wiped down what I could, now that I was by the lake the skeeters coming off the water were thick and eventually they covered Phil like a blanket. I reached in to put the car in neutral and pushed. It started rolling toward the water. I didn’t think I would have to go far, when daddy took me fishing here I remember a drop off not far from the water line, when you were swimming it was like coming to the edge of the deep end.
The front of the car went in the lake and seconds later I was up to my ankles and could feel the lake sucking the car in. Sweet! I was home free, I thought. The hood dipped down and I thought I saw the car drop. It started to when I heard a muffled thunk under water. The ass of the car was sticking out of the lake and the car was moving.
Something was blocking the car. I had no choice but to dive in, I reached in to the Cadillac and turned on the lights which were already under the lake. When I held my breath and dipped below the water line I almost swallowed a mouth full of
There were already two goddamn cars down there, on the second dip I could see what was pretty fucking safe to assume were corpses sitting in the front seats. I took a moment to take my breath, calm myself. Maintain. Chill. Think. But it was hard with the ass end of Phil’s car sticking out of lake meadows and his harem of skeeters growing by the minute.
I wondered how long those cars were there, I mean people have been whackin each other and dumping cars in lakes for hundred years now atleast. The odds were that most would been pulled from the lake sooner or later. Could it be that there was some
I started to push the car on it’s side, as it landed on it’s side I heard another thunk. I reached in the water and felt under Phil’s car the rust shape of yet another car. Jesus fucking Christ! How many fucking cars are down there! I couldn’t help thinking this was another draw back to urban sprawl, everybody moves out of the city and starts hogging all the resources.
That is when the lights from the car turned into the parking lot. I wasn’t even to the shore when the sheriff shined the spotlight on me.
“Son that lot is full.”
I hate a smart ass.
Originally published in The Gutter Limits by Booger Murphy.
Friday, March 27, 2009
I caught a glimpse of the human boy’s face just before his teeth sank into me: wild yellow pinwheel eyes, spinning in feral circles, white foam at the mouth, drooling down his chin. And he was HOT. Fire hot. His hands scorched my soft fluffy fur and my long delicate ears.
And then he had me between his teeth and I squealed like a little girl bunny, expecting my throat to be torn out even before I smelled my own blood. But something distracted him at just that instant and he made a curious sound and dropped me to the desert floor. I hit it hopping, hopping just as fast as my little feet would allow, darting around rocks and sagebrush as if it were a whole PACK of coyotes upon me.
What startled the rabid boy, I didn’t know. A rattler slithering across his Converse sneakers? A hawk squawking in the sky? I didn’t care. I only knew that once again I had escaped death with nothing more than a few scratches (or in this case a few bite marks) to show for it.
But already I could feel the fever setting in. Though the boy had barely broken the skin it had been enough. I knew I would be a raving lunatic by the following day and so I hurried home to my hole to say goodbye to my mate and 25 children.
And now I roam the desert alone, my true life stolen by the rabid boy, my previously gentle and happy demeanor but a memory. Instead of frolicking through the desert, eating, breeding, pissing, I wait near footpaths and picnic areas. I prick my ears and twitch my nose. I look cute and pretend I’m tame. I let the children approach and catch me. And then I bite them back.
I lay broken at your feet,
but I still have my dignity
and that's a crying shame
so sew my mouth shut,
I promise I wont tell
use my flesh to your liking,
I was never all that fond of it anyway
do whatever you need to do
just don't leave me alone,
until one way or another...
...You said that sympathy was all you had to offer me that night,sympathy and your father's gunpowder Then you fired But it wasn't sympathy that I saw in your eyes,when I laughed away the buckshot that ripped thorough my organs (just as I had once ripped through yours) No It wasn't sympathy,when you saw my true face for the first time under the faded porchlightit, it was something far, far sweeter
But not nearly as sweet as you...
I woke up to the apples nuzzling me beneath my chin, their chilly skin refreshing in the sticky summer air. The plums rolled across my chest, making squeaky love noises as they bounced back and forth upon my ample breasts. They were so cute and having such fun, I didn’t have the heart to tell them that it was somewhat painful when they landed with their full weight on my nipples, which are a tad sore this week, if you know what I mean.
But, I let them play just the same. They think of my body as a big trampoline—bouncy, bouncy—and they are not the only ones.
The bananas were present too, playing tag beneath the sheets, way down by my toes. I had to stick my head under there briefly and tell them to be careful. "Don’t play so rough," I said. "I don’t want anyone to get bruised. Broken skin will make everyone unhappy."
Those crazy bananas barely listened to me though. They were just having too good of a time. I think they may have been playing Cops and Robbers, just like I used to do with my cousin when we were little kids. Or maybe it was Cowboys and Indians…
Several peaches made themselves known when they began trying to shove the apples away from my face. I have often noticed that peaches are the most jealous and possessive fruit of all. I had to speak firmly to them, tell them that I had enough love for each and every one of them. That seemed to settle them down some and I laughed at their antics, not mad at all that they’d all woken me up so early on a Saturday morning.
But, it wasn’t until my beloved tangerines hopped aboard, shouting a gleeful good morning to me and juggling themselves through the air above my head that I really began to feel awake and alive and ready to face another day in the orchards, picking fruit for nickels a bushel.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Voice 1: "Dude, these chicks are fucking hot."
Voice 2: "This is a funeral Sky."
Voice 1 "Your mother’s funeral."
Sky: "Tell that to my cock. Look, I not trying be offensive or anything…but that chick over there-
Voice 1: Your cousin.
Sky: Whatever, totality fuckable man. I mean… subtract two points for the tits… and the ass is a little-
Voice 1: Just curious, how many points do you subtract for the fact you have the same Grandmother.
Sky: Stop being so conservative Donald, it’s not like she’s your fucking cousin…
Donald: How old is she? …like 17…
Sky: You’re deflecting. Point is, you probably wouldn’t even wash of your dick after sticking it up that sweet ass.
Donald: Look! I agreed to come Sky… now you promised you wouldn’t act this way in a church, you know-
Sky: Dude… fuck her… or not?
Donald: Okay asshole! I’d fuck your cousin. Are you happy now that I’ve justified you wanting to fuck a blood relative in a house of God! Yes, Okay! I’d fuck your little cousin right up her little ass!
Voice 3 (deep and angry): Hello boys.
Donald: Mister… mister…
Sky: Hi dad. Keep it down Donald… this is a funeral.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
by Ash Lomen
The bloated African sun looked somehow dangerous on that particular morning, shining with an odd, near magenta radiance, as if it were on the verge of some vague celestial warring. Unfortunately, being as it was, high above the thick canopy of the Ithuri rainforest, the lone Efe' man tracking a band of starving monkeys on foot was never even aware of this solar omen.
The young Pigmy ran naked though the foliage as if he were incorporeal. He carried a simple bow and wore a bright crescent scar above his left eye. He stood a good three inches under five feet and was still considered large for his tribe... he was even feared (though not for his size) by some of the giant-men who cut into the very heart of his great mother and at times hunted his people down like common game. The forest that surrounded him was still alive with the quiet, ubiquitous murmurings of death (for the moment).
He was about to remove a small pouch of marijuana attached to his left arm when the snap of a dying vine suddenly gave away the monkeys' position. He pivoted and instinctively fired a barrage of poison arrows into the treetops with a burst of near-inhuman speed. He could tell by the clumsy movement in the branches that an arrow had hit its target. He could now simply trail the poisoned monkey until it expired.
Just then a meaty fist struck the back of his head.
He turned to attack but froze when he saw his assailant. The beast walked on two legs and had a maw of teeth that seemed to stretch wide into an open smile, it's entire body covered in black hair and weeping lesions. Even hunched, it stood taller than any man the young pigmy had ever seen. The Efe' hunter tried to run an arrow into the creature's gut but the thing simply grabbed his tiny forearm and ripped the entire appendage out of its socket.
Then it began to beat him to death with his severed arm…
His last thought was rather strange.
Though the Efe' man had lived in the shady depths of the Ithiuri for the whole of his life, he suddenly wished that he could feel the sun on his skin.
At that same moment, the unlucky monkey who had been hit with the Efe's arrow began to feel the slow pain of poison coursing through its bloodstream.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
When I was weed-eating for the final time last year, hands reached out from the doughy ground and grabbed my ankles. I kicked and stomped on them, but they wouldn't give up. Finally, they clutched the weed-eater. I revved on the gas and yanked on it, which encouraged more hands, pulling on the tool, pulling on my legs, until I fell down and let go.
The weed-eater was gone.
I've been thinking about it all winter. I could buy another, but that would be accepting defeat. Plus, what if they steal that from me, as well? No, I'll have nothing of it. After the first spring mowing, they'll be stirred up again. I've got a shovel with a newly-sharpened spade, and by golly, I will get back my property!
I found a tube of super glue sitting on a pile of 2x4's and proceeded to affix them to my body.
Being there was no saw handy, it has been difficult walking through doorways . . . but everyone in the lumber department thinks I look sexy.
she comes to me again in silent confession. seeking my council. my consent.
she walks with a swagger of purpose. her spiritual avarice.my desecration of God in every step. her brown eyes ablaze with faith. her brown hair begging for my fists.
I’ve spent so many years. cramming backwoods morality down her throat like an overzealous prom king.
tonight I shall taste my own hypocrisy on her lips.
Roses Are Red For A Reason
suburbia in black and white. colors drained away and sold to support the war effort.
gothic kids with razorblades.
pornographic housewives and abusive husbands.
A well-trimmed garden is irrelevant at this point.
nightmares of freedom,
the lines are blurring.
when I focus my eyes they look like stitches.
Anyway, feel free to post whatever you want. Stories, poems, rants, thoughts, observations, whatever. You will not be censored, but please no hate speech or any of that bullshit. Use your common sense.
Now, play ball!