Sunday, December 27, 2009

The Bitter End Of Winter

December came again
less forcefully this year
but still my December

A frosty lover with familiar curves
bringing snow-caps to crawfish hills
and ice to my dry eyes

and making
everyone else
so fucking cold

(just like me)

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Bad Noir In A Bad Way

Okay I tried to do the Noir thing for BOG and this is what I got before I passed out, drunk on the blood of Christ, reading Chimeraworld...

Junktown was not an easy place to spend a long night, and something in Dom’s pickled stomach told him this would be a long night indeed. Long nights were bitter alone, and so around 11:42 PM Dom called upon one of the city’s many fine escort services and ordered a low priced girl up to his shadowy apartment.

“Very minimalist, and nice use of lighting.” Said the whore, makeup smeared across her double chin, staring vacantly across Dom’s spartan living room.

“Don’t speak unless spoken to.” Dom replied.

The hooker smiled in somewhat mocking acquisition.

They got to bed.

Dom tried just fucking her normal at first, but after a few emotionless thrusts he was forced to get out his knives. She didn’t put up much of a fight and the virus inside his head told him to do so many things with her dead body.


Now, not only is it blah… its extremely misogynistic, even for me… this is why I can’t deal with word counts… over 1,000 words Nate, who the fuck do I look like… Proust? ( - :

Saturday, December 19, 2009


Hate to use the site for advertisement but would LOVE to see some submissions from the warped talent on this blog.

I already have an excellent story by Jordan Krall in the TOC.

Here are the guidelines:

Sunday, December 13, 2009

Mysterious Strangers Meet in a Dark Alley

A man in a dark coat waited at the end of the alleyway, the last ashes of his cigarette falling into the puddle beneath him. His face was shadowed by his wide-brimmed hat. Everything about him was dark.

Another man walked into the alleyway. He was dressed very similar to the first man, except his coat was not as dark. And the brim of his hat was not as wide. He lit a cigarette as he stepped into the alleyway.

"Who are you?" The first man asked.

The second man looked up, surprised, the cigarette fumbled from his fingers. "Oh, sorry didn't see you there."

The first man stepped forward. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm a mysterious stranger. My job is stand at the end of this alleyway and give cryptic advice to people who pass by. Have you come for cryptic advice?"

The first man looked at the mysterious stranger. "That's my job, asshole. Find another place. I'm expecting someone to come looking for clues to the murder of his wife."

The mysterious stranger shook his head. "Nope. Afraid that's my job. I was told to wait here at midnight and say 'The duck flies at dawn.' It's part-time work, but it pays decent."

"You are not nearly as mysterious or cryptic as me." The first man growled.

"I'm ten times more cryptic than you." The mysterious stranger said. He pulled an egg from his coat pocket. "This egg is the wakening voice of your childhood. A gleam of sleepless dreams."

"What?" The first man said.

"A gargle of acid inside the machinations of youth." The mysterious stranger continued.

"What?" The other said.

"See I told you." The mysterious stranger said. "Now beat it. I get paid by the hour."

"Ok." The first man lit six cigarettes. "I guess I won't ask you about my wife then."

The mysterious stranger stared at the first man as he pushed past him and into the fog of the night.

"Huh?" The mysterious stranger scratched his head.

Saturday, December 12, 2009

Playing God With Matches

twin hermaphroditic
angels fucking

clockwork cocks
and cunts

a biological symphony

pale flesh
to the point of infinity

its all downhill from here...


Inspired by Alan M. Clark's "Angels" and Wrath and Lee's novella "Teratologist"

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

"Into The Valley Below"

The highway that wrapped around Mt. Locheaart was like a cold, coiled snake. Robert’s customized sedan rolled on as its driver marveled at the pristine yet somehow chaotic surroundings of Devereaux State Park, its peaks and valleys crisscrossed by wild rivers, a deep green so pure that it was almost blue.

Robert looked back to his side, he was momentarily distracted from the road by the beauty of his young wife Mary, as she sat, long black hair let back to fully embrace the sun, tan and barefoot upon the dash, smoking a girly joint held at a corner of her puffy, perfect, Spanish lips.

His hand on the wheel slipped.

Robert went careening off the side of the Appalachian road into the valley of deadfall below. Before he died, a strange thing happened; the fear, the dire need in his wife's eyes for him at that very moment, looking over, the expression of helplessness all over her face, it all gave him a guilty erection. A tear fell from his eye.

Then he thought of their son at home. Jack was both of them.

And as they fell, wrapped in a tight daredevil's embrace, and as the car broke terminal velocity like a spinning ballerina, Robert entered his wife’s body for the last time in his life.

They become one, infused with scrapmetal and melted rubber and smoking like a spent bullet into the valley below.

Sunday, December 6, 2009

A Day In the Life of Chewbacthulhu

Chewbacthulhu braids his tentacles with tufts of his greasy brown fur. "Good hair day!" he roars, prancing around the mirror. Then he bursts into a song written for him (in the third person)by Marvin Hamlisch:

"Chewbacthulhu's too sexy for his wings.

Too sexy for his wings.

They're vestigial things.

He's a model, you know what he means?

It means he shakes his tentacles on the cat walk.

On the catwalk. On the catwalk, yeah. It means he shakes his furry glutes on the
cat walk."

Then he goes off to a photo shoot in Paris (Kentucky).

After a long day of mugging for the camera, he falls asleep dreaming of his own shaggy rump. (Why not, everyone else is?)

Chewbacthulhu wakes only to find himself shaven bald. Each of his luscious tentacles has been nailed to the ground. Marvin Hamlisch is holding a hammer and grinning. The sick fuck. "Bad hair day!" he snarls. "Ha ha ha ha ha! Bad hair day! Bad hair day!"