Contributor: Dirky Henkel

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Standing by the window, Odessa scratches that itch which never stops. This one is new, two days old. Her vagina's growing more swollen, turning light blue like her eyes, her pubic hair falling out in lumps. Every now and then she can see her vaginal walls move. And she knows it's a virus inside of her, another unwanted Hypherian baby, sucking its way into her womb as though there aren't enough of them leeching the planet. That's what shit like her is used for these days, breeding. She killed the first little fucker, because she found out. Giving birth to their young is suicide. They say you dissolve like acid. Rumours travel fast, even here in Block A329, a hundred floors up. There's comfort in complacency, especially when you're being fed pills.
The haze from the outside creeps through the grille and makes her face look like a checkerboard of fire orange. There's no day or night, no sense of time. She wonders what's beyond those dark clouds permanently casting shadows on the city that used to be, what those fast-moving, neon lights are below, how much longer those airborne star machines, with their protracting claws and flickering beacons waking her up mid-sleep with their noises, will be demolishing all the surrounding buildings. Everything's going, being replaced, yet nothing's really changing.
It's mostly lonely but she's used to it, these four walls of prison hell. She's seen much, enough. Sometimes she gets visits from that scaly bastard, Warden Ainu, whose only services are meals and abortions, the latter of which is to his gain, running a foetus-selling business on the black market which thrives right at home. Warden's not much different from the prisoners he watches, just male, old, one of the last surviving of his gender. Like them, his freedom's severely restricted, confined to the block. And he's not the first warden. Without him, they'd be dead. Without them, he'd be starving. Trust is mutual.
Something slides underneath the padlocked door, what she was waiting for. A piece of paper.
“Ready?” it reads. “Need the protein. Got your solution.”
She dips a stick in a bucket of faeces, scribbles on the paper, “Y,” and sends her message.
There's a buzz. The door clunks open, and the warden sneaks in with his briefcase of tools and motions for her to lie down. She does so, setting her legs wide apart, pulling up her johnny gown of brown blotches. She's then bare, being poked and prodded in inspection. It hurts when he feels that bump above her scarred clitoris, even more when he inserts a pair of pliers inside to fish for the parasite. But she knows it must be done. Her face compresses. She bites her lip. Her eyes roll back. She screams in her mind, but not from her mouth. She hasn't had her tongue since she was two. No human does. The cold, invading steel seems like it's about to puncture her intestines, inciting a need to urinate. Liquid runs down the back of her legs. It's not her essence. The thing's already out, being pinched between the pliers, wriggling its last. It resembles a glowing tapeworm. That's what they look like in the early stages. Warden Ainu throws it into a jar with formaldehyde, and leaves. Odessa has her survival.

Ten days since the abortion. The meal compartment in the door opens. She holds the tray just long enough to get a look, trying to spot the odd change, and sees. There's another warden. Ainu's gone. This one is more anemic, corpselike, torn from reality. Different. She tries to meet his eyes to communicate, but he shuts her off. She slowly sinks on the bed, lost of appetite.

From under her blanket, she hears the door open and close. She doesn't open her eyes. She can hear it cooing, tracing the ground with those viscuous tentacles, coming nearer. The blanket leaves her side. Her gown gets torn, and her body goes bouncing onto the concrete floor. She loses consciousness, but not before she feels the Hypherian thrust inside.

She's still bleeding below, that throb between her thighs ceaseless, her entire gown damp. She gets up in time and limps over for another serving, hearing those wheels squeak in the passage. As the tray gets handed through, she snags the warden by the tie. Suddenly, an alarm goes off, and she backs off ruefully, staring at the door, waiting. In enters a droid that shoots a canister of gas. It makes her sleep.

It's getting bad, the itch, really bad. Those fucks have her good this time. She can't move. She's not sure what they gave her, why they keep coming in, but she knows it's getting worse. She keeps fading in and out. The thing inside isn't in her vagina anymore. Looking down, she notices how her stomach is inflating.

They're standing around, watching her like this is some kind of sick show. How many days has it been? All she can see is their silhouettes, and all she can do is turn her head, wring silly smiles. The pills make her want to laugh. They overdid the dosage. She realizes why. It's happening. The veins on her forehead tense. There's an eruption in her abdomen, a sensation of needles plunging outward, and then she can finally scream even though it sounds more like a deep grunt. The dome of her stomach pops, sending blood on her face, everywhere. The thing's head rears from her organs. It's a wet, hairy ball, like a spider as big as a dog, and it scampers away to join its family. Odessa's skin is burning, disintegrating, and she can see the bones in her fingers. The light from the window isn't orange anymore.


- - -
Dirky Henkel writes from Berlin, Germany. Follow her on Twitter at @DirkyHenkel.

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Author: Dirky Henkel

Contributor: Catfish McDaris

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I slash his throat and hands with my machete, as the scream escapes, I cut it into thin slices and deal them like a deck of tarot cards, then I wake up. Some nights it’s playing chess with Elvis and I wake before I checkmate the king. Or I’m a phrenologist and feeling the lumps on Hitler’s head before shoving a grenade in his mouth. Sometimes the night gathers me up in its arms and I listen to the mermaids whisper and laugh. Or the continuous sex of knocking boots with beautiful twin sisters, they decide to treat me down and doggie. They make me a nasty sandwich, by wiping their ass on bread, spitting on the cheese, blowing boogers in the mustard, jerking out some pubes for the lettuce and slicing dog doo for the main ingredient and covering it with salsa. It’s not as bad as it sounds. They let me shave their armpits and vaginas and lick them baldy clean. Then I take them to Benihaha’s Jap Café, this Asian dude slaps steak and onions on a hot grill and fashions the pile into a tiny steamboat and manipulates it across the heated surface, making it puff smoke rings. He then divides it and flips it into our bowls with rice in soy sauce and does some tricks with chicken and shrimp. Tossing the salt and pepper shakers up in the air and catching them on top his chef’s hat. I go to the can and come back and he’s dropped down on my girls, playing Ring Around Tokyo Rosie. When he gives me the bill, I need an ambulance and an armored car. I just wish I could mellow out and have some smooth dreams again.


- - -
Catfish McDaris’ most infamous chapbook is Prying with Jack Micheline and Charles Bukowski. His best reading was in Paris at the Shakespeare and Co. Bookstore. Catfish McDaris Mcdar3@aol.com

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Author: Catfish McDaris

Contributor: Craig Podmore

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After walking the isolated, rural country road I finally come across an idyllic cottage. I spray my perfume, all over my neck, my wrists and my exposed cleavage. I knock on the door. A male dwarf answers; he thoroughly scans my legs, all the way up, past my thighs to my breasts and then finally my face. Not a word is muttered as I enter the cottage. Inside there’s a fire and two naked women, both wearing amputated pigs’ snouts that crudely deform their pretty faces. The perfume stings my skin as the salt of my sweat reacts. The heat is immense.

I have no recollection of getting here...

“Welcome, welcome! My beautiful flower is here.” The director greets me with his absurd sentiment.
“Do you have the key?” He asks. An overwhelming confusion envelops me.
“A key? I’m sorry…I…”
“Don’t worry, princess…” He claps, smiling intensely, almost unnervingly. The dwarf man claps too but the two naked women stand with a haunting stoicism. The fire is nearly as big as the room itself; it’s a blue and green flame and not a normal colour.

“This is Grieg, he’s the cameraman for the shoot.” Grieg, an obvious man of sleaze, his grin stretches to a disturbing point, his neck has burn marks – “it’s just a love bite, don’t worry about it.” They both laugh; as Grieg knew I was staring at his inflamed scars. The feeling of inadequacy is unbearable; I could not comfort nor contain myself at all. The dwarf approaches me with a disturbing grimace: “is your cunt wet yet?”

I look at the director and he just continues to laugh but suddenly stops, almost robotic-like, he takes a knife out of his pocket, I drop my handbag, Grieg starts shooting, the director starts to smile again with a more inhuman jest, he penetrates the knife into himself, such screams, such woe, such pain as he slices the knife up from his abdomen to the top of his chest, he stretches the wound open, blood spits onto my make-up and expensive lipstick, I quickly look at the two naked women and still they stand inanimately, the dwarf however is dead on the floor, headless; his head smoulders in the fire, the director’s self-autopsy is at a near completion as his ribs, sinew, guts and bone exhibit explicitly in front of me, shockingly still, in the darkness of his very flesh, something moves, something alive comes forward, it has a face, I cover my mouth as vomit protrudes slowly, I recognise the face, it is my father's.

I wake up in the back of a limo as if an electric shock had passed through me. A slight disorientation, a profound irritation overcomes me, a complication of realisation relating to whether I just witnessed the unnerving events that I had experienced back in that ghastly cabin. I notice a glass of champagne, half full, lipstick-smeared glass (my colour); my head is pounding, my mouth unbelievably dry and my vision doubles as one tries to look at things close up. The limo stops. The driver announces my arrival, he gets out of the car and walks round to the door on my side, he opens it with a gentlemanly charm, I did expect an abundance of flash photography bruising the corneas of my eyes, instead, the welcome is of a pure silence. A figure waits in the doorway of a funeral home, it is my mother; I notice that her dress is soaking in blood, so thorough that the cotton of the dress has solidified. The blood derives from her left breast, where her heart resides. She does not greet me with exuberance but with a haunting calm, she mumbles apologies to me with an illustrated torture that resounds throughout my soul and skin. Again, I sweat; my perfume no longer lingers of sweetness but something more death-like. I look back to see if the limo was still there but it has disappeared without a trace, I didn’t hear the engine at all for my mother’s apologies. I look back towards my mother and no longer does she stand in the doorway. I walk into the funeral home, a thick blackness swarms the inside and I hear constant whispers inviting me into the building, I’m somewhat apprehensive but some unconscious notion drives me to walk inside.

A spotlight hits me from a beyond no soul knew existed. It blinds me, I put my hand up to see if I can gain a vision for anything ahead of me but all I can make out is a catwalk-like stage. From within the dark, I start to her voice resonating, steadily progressing louder and chanting my name:

“Anna, Anna, Anna…”

Such a disturbing engagement, I step back due to trepidation and fear until a soft light appears at the end of the stage. A young girl playing with her skipping rope, she does not seem of this age, the delicate pigtail hair and the rich, floral dress flows as she jumps, her movements postponed somewhat, as if she’s in a slower motion than our dimension of actual time. She seems so real and so…familiar. I start to walk towards her in a steady speed and the voices still carry on chanting my name. As I begin to walk, a dead rose is thrown in front of me. I step forward furthermore and to my horror, a human kidney is thrown before me, I shake and stumble in a catharsis so profound. No longer do I want to look back, no longer do I want to see forward. Although, the young girl continues to skip and play in her own little heaven ahead, I pull myself together and step over the grotesque organ. More steps I take and blood starts to flicker onto my face, I vomit onto the stage with such violence. The chanting abruptly stops, I look unto the darkness, nothing to be seen but the glare of the spotlight, again I stand straight and look ahead. The girl still skips. Voices appear again although this time, it is a choir of incoherent ululations, it makes me look around in an erratic fashion and never before have I witnessed such madness. I walk, faster now, towards the girl, more intestines, hearts, bones, fragments of brain, amputated genitals, prosthetic limbs, dildos, pictures of murder victims that I could recognise, my pace growing and growing and more macabre offerings land in my path.

Finally I approach the girl, she stops skipping, with her back to me she slowly turns around and faces me only to reveal that she is a younger me, she smiles and then places her index finger before her lips; ‘shhhh…’ She disappears, I am frantic as I begin to shout for her, the invisible beings within the cold dark start to laugh and applaud such a delusion.

“Anna. Turn around my sweet petal.”

The deep voice bellows from behind my back, the familiar voice cuts me in two. I fear that it is my father. I turn with an immense apprehension; my guts turn into a sour grave, as it is indeed my father. I nearly fall onto my behind as he stands with a newborn baby girl in his arms along with a revolver pointing to her skull in his right hand. She screams, the poor girl, such hullaballoo, I can’t look him in the eyes; the dark voids of his homicidal menace haunt me.

“The fact that she isn’t screaming because of the sight of the gun but because of something more mundane, like hunger or flatulence, it illustrates to me how stupid we all are, without the wisdom of the elders we’re nothing but flesh…existing.”

He pulls the trigger; the blast, the rapid fire, it’s burning chamber smokes as the innocent’s blood exits the frame of its little head. The audience is revealed; every single person is me, an exact mirror of, laughing and pointing at me, photographers jump onto the stage, the bulbs flashing like machine guns, Polaroid pictures of my bloodied face hit the floor amidst the confetti of flesh and sinew, the blood of me, newborn, stains my eyelids, forehead and cheeks, I feel a gnawing coming from the genital area, a subtle pinch, I guide my hands between my legs and I nervously feel a residue. My fingers reveal specks of menstruation, now I can see…


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Author: Craig Podmore

Contributor: Will Lawrence

- -
She didn’t know what was wrong with her.

Was she unstable?

Was she a pervert?

Could this be a gateway fetish to something more bizarre, like S&M, or licking a man’s anus?

Her boyfriend left her three weeks ago this Thursday.

It was Tuesday.

And now she felt damaged, unworthy of another long-term suitor, because she would inevitably carry this peculiar desire over from one relationship to another, and so on and so on… until, she feared, word would spread, and every eye belonging to every man, woman, child, and animal she passed in her day-to-day life would be not only aware, but firmly fixated on her, for that one and only reason.

She would probably die alone. She couldn’t be more certain of that. She continuously told herself she was going to die alone, over and over, each and every day, and now she fully trusted the idea, firmly believing in her own ridiculous foresight.

She hid faceless in Internet chat rooms and on message boards, dating sites and personal ads, believing what she was doing was nothing more than research – a quest – for a potential husband, or at the very least a loving, caring, understanding life-long companion. But all they ever turned out to be were one-night stands, leaving her unfulfilled, but more than anything, embarrassed and ashamed of herself, while they would leave with yet another notch in their belts and a great little story to laugh about with their buddies over drinks. It didn’t take long for her to realize the safest bets were hooking up in parts of the city where she was unlikely to ever run in to her one-shot beaus again, and to start using “fake” names.

Thank God for old high school enemies.

But was this thing just a sickness that would continue to live on, an incurable disease?

Even after her eventual demise, was this something that would haunt her even beyond the grave? Would this be her legacy? She couldn’t help but return to that terrifying belief, that these partners – each one she had infected, even amidst their dim-witted, dullard exteriors – would grow old, have wives, children – families – and tell their son’s tales, during late nights when boundaries cannot be crossed, when nothing seems remotely right nor wrong, about that one revolting night in the history of their youth. And she would be the siren who’d got the best of them, led them astray, but nevertheless sent them along to reiterate the tale of the woman who couldn’t help but be turned on to hear her men fart during sex.


- - -
I like to write stuff.

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Author: Will Lawrence

Contributor: Misti Rainwater-Lites

- -
She was quite the side dish, much creamier and more filling than potato salad or green bean casserole. No woman in her right mind wants to be meatloaf or turkey. That’s what wives are for.

“You’d rather see me dead than with another man. Wouldn’t you, baby?” she murmured, nesting naked in stained twisted sheets and not so fluffy pillows.
“Damned straight,” he said, tweaking her defiant left nipple.
The newest hot shit reality show blared from the television, which was surrounded by empty wine bottles and gay sex magazines. “Survivor Small Press Poet Island.” If the two surviving poets did not resort to cannibalism they would win a book deal with Simon and Schuster and a lifetime supply of peppermint flavored condoms. There was a catch. The surviving poets would not be allowed to brag about their victory at Facebook. The surviving poets would, in fact, have to deactivate their Facebook accounts. It was a kind of experiment. Would poetry books sell without Facebook? It was a gamble the producers were willing to take.

“I feel sorry for your wife. The meatloaf. The turkey. The lasagna so forlorn in the deep freeze,” the creamy and filling side dish said.
“Shush,” he said. He reached for the nearest bottle of moscato, took a swig.
“I talk too much, I know. Sorry, baby. But I don’t want to ever take your wife’s place. Just wanted to make that clear. I’m very happy with the way things are. You fuck me then write poems about me. We’re adhering to an ancient tradition.”
“Yup.”

They fucked and drank moscato until they passed out. It was kind of like a Bukowski poem but much deeper and more poignant. Outside the window a homeless wino screeched,”We’re being poisoned by this Disney princess syndrome! True love ain’t a mermaid cartoon!” A tourist from Texas with bad hair and worse ideas handed the wino a dollar. It made her feel altruistic and relevant. The sky spit down rain but the bars were open. The Texan walked inside a bar and ordered a Maker’s Mark, neat. No one in the world could mess that shit up.


- - -
I like to drink beer and play with my vibrator.

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Author: Misti Rainwater-Lites

Contributor: Dirky Henkel

- -
The weight of the man was gone, along with that smell of old nicotine. A scurrying sound indicated his exit. She stood, trying hard not to retch, and assembled what was left of her dress. The outline of her body was still embedded in the grass, on that patch where her life had been changed. She climbed out the park corner, left with nothing but a limp. And a secret.

***

They were in the front garden taking pictures, just Nina and her boy as it always had been, preparing for his graduation day. Through the lens, she saw a mirror image, and shut her eyes to rid of the poison, those memories that rendered her a pigeon of a human being. She couldn't let them get to her now. So she breathed in. One last snap was enough. They joined the road.
“You've grown up so fast,” she said and he agreed, and her hands tightened around the wheel. Then she spotted him fidgeting in the compartment. "What are you looking for?"
"Nothing."
"Your camera?"
He sighed. "Yeah. Hope I didn't forget."
"It's in my bag--"
Right then, a piece of paper slipped out from Nina's art portfolio, and so too did their firearm. Thomas went to put the items back, but couldn't help but be compelled by the sketch of a man's face: chiseled features, spiked hair, full lips, enlarged jaw on which was flaunted a petite goatee.
"Put that back," she insisted, snagging it from him, slamming the compartment closed.
He looked at her curiously. "Sorry. Just liked the drawing."
She regretted lashing out, and ruffled his hair. Then she wasn't sure why she made mention of it next and when she did, it was too late to withdraw, "Remember when I told you how daddy left?”
"What about it?”
Maybe it had eaten away for too long. Maybe she just hadn't been open enough with him before. She replied, "Honestly, it's been bugging me a lot. Lately, that is.”
“Doesn't bug me, mom. Anyway, these talks make me agitated.”
“I know but...” Now she almost couldn't bring herself to speak. Her words jumbled. “Thomas, Daddy didn't really walk out. There's more to it. ”
“Like what?”
“I...I don't know your daddy.” She looked away, rueful only when she noticed his surprise, because she wasn't expecting that.
“How is it even--” Thomas laughed incredulously.
“When I said those things about daddy, I was lying. Never had a partner in my life. But back when I told you, you were just a kid, understand?”
“All those stories, meeting daddy at a camp--were those made up?”
She tried to reason, “Yes, but hear me out, okay?”
Thomas stopped her with a hand. “Please don't,” he said softly. “Not now.”
The sky darkened.

***

It was late afternoon, a week day blurred among the rest. As Antonio had done for two decades, he disposed of his day-concluding coffee cup and made notice of his farewell to colleagues with the usual wry tip of the hat. He went to his locker, taking in the time-captured beams of his dead brides, and saw himself in the mirror. Old, sinful. That ugly mug of a face was more of a raisin than ever, he reckoned. But he cropped it down to all the restless nights, to those dreams giving him insomnia as a better option, those unwanted faces being resurrected in his subconscious. Haunting him, his unclean hands.
“Hey,” his supervisor startled him. “What are you doing for the weekend, buddy? There's a rumor about you making the rounds in the upper floors.”
“Really?” Antonio replied. “I hope it's not a bad one, boss.” A nervous laugh escaped him.
“No, not at all. Big heads made mention of promoting you to captain. You're only supposed to find out next week, though." A reassuring pat on the back set Antonio at ease. "Congratulations, Sergeant. Or should I say, Captain.” The supervisor issued a wink and left.
Antonio stopped smiling that fake smile. When the room was empty, when the only company was his thoughts, he gave in to his tears. He wasn't sure why he was crying, but then he started enjoying it, and then he started remembering the crimson of the past.
The ensuing moments blurred.
Antonio started his way home, blue and red blaring in victory over the traffic. In his rear view mirror, a wily grin took shape.

***

If it hadn't been for the presence of the police car pulling up, she wouldn't have braked before the stop sign; it was getting dark, inciting her to haste. She tapped her finger on the wheel while Thomas conversed with someone over the phone. Then she swung her head toward the policeman waiting beside her, just out of interest at first, and saw him. Her heart entered her throat, and she lost wind as if her stomach had been smashed inward. She squinted to make sure, and she knew it was him but kept denying it. She was alone then, just Nina and that man from twenty years ago, and she was focusing in, tracking his movement. The policeman veered forward and she did so as well, and then she banged into him, and again. Until they were both off-kilter, screeching, forced to a halt, both amidst a chaos of neon vulgarities. Chirality.

***

Nina began dragging her feet along the ground outside, feeling glass fragments beneath her soles. She heard a familiar voice--Thomas. But he wasn't in the car. Through a crack in the window, she saw him splayed on the pavement, and her eyes went wide at the sight of his ruin of a face. She tried to get out, but a hand pushed her back. A shadow swallowed her. There he was.
“What the fuck did you think you were doing?” the policeman bellowed as she stared at the compartment, waiting for the right moment. Then she made eye contact, meeting his rotten hazel, and immediately he clamped her shoulders, went to undo her garb, and this wasn't part of her plan. It was happening again. She loosed a yell that went nowhere.
"Shut the fuck up," he whispered a warning, pressing his nicotine palm against her mouth. Her kicking grew torpid against his catch. He went to his buckle, and all she could do was mutter prayers. An icy breeze whipped her loath skin. The man laid the cold steel of his glock against her head, readying. Slyly, her hand was already inside the compartment, out of his sight, scrambling for what she needed.
But it wasn't there. And a shot fired off.
Antonio wrung a crude smile, satisfied. He turned, and his smile went, because the boy was behind him, holding a gun too. And there was a hell of a pain in Antonio's back, so bad it was obvious what it was. And he was losing feeling. And then he wasn't on his feet anymore.

***

When Antonio came to, he wasn't sure if it was night or day, why he was in an unlit room, why he could only budge his head. Looking down, he saw he was tied up, stuck on a wooden chair. Kidnapped. Light squeezed through a door ahead. There sounded a creaking of floorboards then footsteps. The door opened. A hand smacked a light switch. At first it appeared to be help but then--
Nina rolled her wheelchair-bound son inside, passing Antonio a smile that would forever haunt, a smile that was kept there for a minute of eternity. She said to the ear of the still boy, “Thomas, meet your father. You'll have forever to be acquainted.”

***


- - -
Dirky Henkel is a daughter of the dark, a fledgling writer of erotica and horror, hailing from the sewers of Berlin, Germany. Twitter: @DirkyHenkel.

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Author: Dirky Henkel

Contributor: Misti Rainwater-Lites

- -
Purple Pieman is lurking around, peeking through windows. Goddamn he needs to find a yummy bitch! Then he chances upon the candled glow of Golden Dream Barbie’s bathroom window. Oh fuck. Oh GOD. There she be, all creamy incandescent nubile plastic glory, reason enough to swoon beneath the pumpkin moon. She’s soaking in a garden tub filled with bubbles and she’s SINGING. Purple Pieman slobbers but does not ejaculate, not yet. There is world enough and time. He opens the window, climbs in. Golden Dream Barbie sure is surprised!

“Who…who are you?”
“Baby, I’m your preacher. I’m your teacher. I’m your daddy. I’m the baker of your miracle pies, the manufacturer of your most gleaming dreams. I’ve come to take you away, baby girl. Calgon can only take you so far. I take you the rest of the way. Next stop…O-Town!”
“You’ve…you’ve got a purple mustache. I don’t understand.”
“Hush your mouth. Don’t analyze. Don’t compare this to an Eagles song. Forget your goddamn nursery rhyme training and relax, angel cunt. Everything will make sense soon enough.”

After the rape there was Cohibas and cognac. Golden Dream Barbie hopped out of the tub, put on a Bee Gees record. “Run To Me” began to play. Golden Dream Barbie hopped back in the tub, cuddled up all sudsy and warm to her boysenberry scented benefactor. His mustache was buoyant. It did not droop. He put his arms around Golden Dream Barbie, smooched her nipple free breasts.

“I just wanted to memorialize this moment, make it more poignant than it already is,” Golden Dream Barbie said.
“I know, baby. I know,” Purple Pieman said.
They found themselves in the vicinity of love. It was kind of creepy, kind of unsettling. But most of all it was a most stimulating way to slaughter time.


- - -
I like to drink beer and play with my vibrator.

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Author: Misti Rainwater-Lites

Contributor: Stacy Maddox

- -
Remembering the first time
We made love on the carpeted floor
Always makes me smile
And still remains a favorite

It wasn't just sex with her
But a slow, sensual seduction
After long days and hot nights
Waiting for just the right moment

She was the experienced one
Temptation lured me in
Enticed, anticipating passion
I watched her with hooded eyes

Finally needing to feel
The woman to woman kiss
Shy, tender, exciting, raw
I couldn't wait for more

To touch her slickness, to know
What she already knew
Silky, soft parting of skin
A tongue on my hungry breast

She was between my thighs
Lingering, probing, licking, moaning
Seeking out secret places
I didn't imagine existed

Crying out, wanting no end
I could smell her scent
Tangy, sweaty, sweet
As she brought me higher

I had to taste her
There, between smooth, open lips
She was ready for me
Arching her back, already moist

Swollen, touchable, inviting
Spread eagle before me
Her hands wrapped in my hair
Eyes closed, head thrown back

She thrust to my rhythm
Vulnerable, willing, encouraging
Needing to accept my fingers
Inside her tight, wet sheath

We came in unison, revealing bliss
My body and mouth busy
Releasing those forbidden pleasures
No soon to be forgotten.


- - -
Stacy Maddox lives, dreams and writes in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS. Stacy has been published in Shades Of Expression by Gerl Publishing, The Medulla Project, Daily Love,The Entroper, Emerge Literary Journal, Three Line Poetry, The Fat City Review and Mused: The BellaOnline Literary Review. She has been passionate about poetry, photography, music, quotes and stories for over 30 years.

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Author: Stacy Maddox

Contributor: Nathaniel Tower

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Krista seemed normal enough, but if I'd known how wild and sticky things would get, I might've stayed away.
We met my sophomore year of college. She was standing in the quad looking up at a gargoyle on the side of a building I'd never even noticed. At the time I didn't know what she was looking at, which made it easy to go and talk to her.
"What are you looking at?" I asked in my ever-so-smooth first line.
It took her a minute to realize I was talking to her. "Are you talking to me?" she said just as smoothly.
"Of course," I said in a way I thought wasn't rude.
Then she told me about the gargoyle and I asked her out. She accepted and our first date was that night. I told her right on the spot that in addition to being the prettiest girl on campus (she wasn't), she was also the most interesting (she was). It's not that she wasn't attractive. She just wasn't what most guys would call hot. More of a cute type, I suppose. But something about her sure floated my boat, if you know what I mean.
She was a lot of things I wasn't. She was athletic, with a nice hard body that had a few curves in the right places. She went to church every week. She volunteered at a soup kitchen. I didn't even know where a soup kitchen was and had little desire to learn.
She worked hard to keep up her grades. I made the Dean's List without showing up for class, supposedly no small feat for our fine institution. Funny thing about that is that no one from my hometown up near Chicago had ever even heard of Wash U or Washington University or WUSTL or Washington University in St. Louis. It was impossible to explain to people where I was going, and they all wondered why someone so smart wasn't going to a good school. As well-ranked as it is, it sure doesn't seem to be known by the general public.
Krista was a local. Born and bred in St. Louis all her life. Her parents lived in Clayton, just minutes away from campus. Luckily for me they didn't come around much. I'm sure they were nice people once you got to know them, but I wasn't interested in knowing anything but her body.
She voted conservative. I didn't vote, although I doubt I would've supported the same candidate.
All of this pretty much came out on our first date. We talked rampantly for hours, and then I tried to get her to come back to my place without trying too hard. I ended up just giving her a goodnight kiss on the cheek and promised I'd see her again.
It seemed after our first date, as much as we got along and as easy as it was to talk to each other, that the only thing we had in common was a love for ice cream. We must've talked about our favorite flavors and brands and ice cream shops for an hour. Actually, she was more into frozen custard, which was fine with me even though I was never really sure what the difference was. She raved about this place called Ted Drewes that was like some historic landmark of St. Louis. It was more famous than The Arch, she told me. And more people went there, so she said. I doubted it, but you can't really tell someone you just met that you don't believe them, so I said she would have to take me sometime so I could compare it to my nineteen years of frozen dairy experience. For some reason this was funny to her, and she promised we would go the next chance we got.
Within a week, Krista and I had set up our next date; we were headed for Ted Drewes on a Friday night. "It'll be packed," she warned me. "But it's sooo worth it." And she was right, in a way.
I picked up Krista around seven and we drove over to the Chippewa location. Even though it was a little further away, she said it was worth the extra gas for the experience. I just went along, hoping it would lead to something else. She wore a little sundress with the thinnest straps. I kept picturing myself sliding my fingers underneath those straps and watching the dress slide off her body. It's not like I was a pervert or some sex fiend or anything. Truth is, I'd never even had intercourse before. I got a couple hand jobs in high school, and a girl and I went down on each other as freshmen in college, but that was about it. Somehow I knew that Krista would be the girl to get me out of my slump or whatever it was. I'm not really sure why since I was certain she had little to no experience. I just had a feeling.
The line was twice what I expected. Surely she had been exaggerating when she told me about how crazy people went for this frozen custard, but when we drove past the custard stand, there were people lined out into the street.
"This stuff must be amazing," I said.
"Oh, it is," she said with an odd wink.
We parked, waited in line, had small talk. It wasn't the most exciting date, but I enjoyed being with her enough. When we finally got to the front, she took charge and ordered two large vanilla concretes.
"Just vanilla?" I asked.
"Yup. You've gotta taste how good this custard is before you can load it up with junk."
She even paid for it, but I didn't feel emasculated or anything. I was an open-minded kind of guy, and I wasn't about to complain about getting free custard.
When our yellow cups arrived at the window, the employee turned them upside down to show us just how cold they were, and then we headed back to the car. With all those people there, you'd expect there'd be some place to eat the stuff, but there really wasn't. You just sat on the curb or on your car and plunged the spoon into the cup and into your mouth.
Back at my car I stopped and tried to sit on the trunk, but Krista said, "No, let's not eat it here. I've got a better idea." Again, there was an odd wink, and I was pretty confident I was going to get to see that dress slip off her body.
We drove for about five minutes to some park. I can't remember the name of it, and I'm not sure she ever even told me. She just pointed to where we were going and I blindly led with high expectations. After parking, she told me to take off my pants. This was a bit forward coming from a girl I'd never even kissed on the mouth, but for some reason I didn't mind. She seemed wholesome enough. I mean, vanilla custard. You can't get more wholesome than that.
Before I even had my pants all the way down, she grabbed my dick and gave it a few good tugs to make sure it was nice and hard. "This might be a little cold at first," she said, and then she dipped my balls in the custard. I thought they were going to retreat up into my kidneys. My boner almost went away, but I was so horny that I don't think anything could've shut me off completely.
With my balls fully submerged in the frozen custard, Krista began administering the finest blow job the world has ever known. At least it was better than the one I'd gotten before. It seemed to last forever. Every time I thought I was going to come, a wave of cold would block up the sperm. I couldn't see it, but I was sure my dick kept getting harder and bigger and purpler.
After what must've been ten minutes of intense sucking, Krista stopped and looked at me and asked if I was ready. I wasn't really sure what she meant, but I really hoped she wasn't asking if I wanted to leave.
"I'm ready for anything," I told her rather hopefully.
Krista pulled my balls out of the cup and leaned back into my crotch. She slowly slid her tongue out of her mouth and licked every bit of custard off my sack. As weird as it sounds, it felt a hundred times better than when she'd been sucking my dick. I moaned and squeezed the steering wheel hard and then let it fly. My semen squirted right onto her forehead and then oozed down the bridge of her nose and right onto her tongue. It looked like custard. She pulled her tongue in, took a big gulp, and then just about passed out on the seat. I'd never seen a woman look so satisfied. I wanted to feel proud of myself, but I hadn't done a thing. I hadn't even eaten any of the best custard in the world. Looking at the cup of melting vanilla, I knew I couldn't eat it then. "Maybe some other time," I told her as we buckled our seatbelts and drove off. She tossed the cups out the window into a pickup truck bed as we pulled back onto the main street. We drove in silence back to Wash U.
"So, what did you think about Ted Drewes?" she asked when we arrived back at her dorm.
"That was without a doubt the best frozen dairy dessert experience of my life," I told her with a laugh. She smiled and said, "Good. Best of mine as well." She gave me a deep kiss on the lips, which I enjoyed at first until her tongue slid into my mouth and I thought of my semen dripping down her face.
I wanted to ask if she'd done that before, but I was too sure the answer was yes. Besides, I didn't know her well enough to go there, and it didn't matter to me anyway since I was more looking for a hook up rather than a real relationship. Still, as I watched her get out of the car and sashay away in her little sundress, I couldn't help but feel jealous about every ice cream blow job she'd ever given. Just how many were there, I wondered. I knew I couldn't have been the first. She was just too good at it, and she knew exactly what she was doing the whole time.
She called me the next day and asked what I wanted to do that night. As much as I wanted a repeat of the night before, I didn't want to seem like I was just in it for the sex, so I told her we should see a movie. Besides, I wanted to get to know her a little and see if she was at least clean before I got too deep into this.
We saw some ridiculous romantic comedy at the nearby Esquire. Even though it was only a mile or so away from the campus, it was the first time I'd been there. It felt a lot dingier than the theatres I went to back home, but I enjoyed spending the time with Krista. Because it was so close, we walked, which was a nice way of getting a feel for what kind of person she was. Unfortunately for me, it was hard to pay attention to anything she said. I just kept thinking about what had happened the night before and if it would happen again or if there was something else she had planned for the second date. Hopefully she didn't have any sex tricks with the hot butter from the popcorn. Frozen balls I could do, but I wanted to stay away from melting scrotums.
We held hands the whole walk back, and she kept pressing up against me and talking about how much she enjoyed being with me.
"Listen, about last night," she said when we were about a block away from campus, "I don't want you to get the wrong idea. I've never done that before. Honest. I just wanted to eat the custard, but being with you last night just made me horny and I wanted to try something crazy."
I looked at her and smiled. "I'm horny when I'm with you," I said, hoping it was the right thing to say. Apparently it was. "Let's go to Ted Drewes," she said when we got back to my dorm. "Okay," I said all too eagerly, but she just laughed and told me how cute I was. Then we ran off to my car, and I do mean ran. The whole drive I stroked her smooth leg and it felt like my dick was going to burst through my cargo shorts. She just kept giggling and saying that she was going to get chocolate tonight.
The line was brutal, and I made her stand in front of me, her ass pressed against me, to hide my boner. I don't know how I managed to stay hard that long, but the thing just wouldn't go down. When we finally ordered our cup of chocolate, I wanted her to rip off my pants and do it right there. Of course we couldn't since it was so damn crowded, so we hurried to the car and drove back to our park. She unzipped my pants on the way there and had my balls dipped in the cup before the car was even in park. This time she sucked for a full fifteen minutes before going for my balls. Instead of a slow lick though, she dipped my balls into her mouth like a cherry and scraped the custard off with her teeth. It was nowhere near as painful as it sounds. I clutched the steering wheel hard and blew my load against the dashboard. She quickly pulled my balls out of her mouth when she heard my semen smack against the dash. Putting the cup of melting custard underneath, she let the dripping semen slide in and mix with the chocolate. Than she chugged it down in one gulp. I couldn't believe my eyes.
"Mr. Drewes seems to be missing a key ingredient in his custard," she told me before collapsing back into her seat.
"Wanna go get another cup so I can do you?" I asked, but she shook her head and smiled. "Just take me home," she said with what must've been her last ounce of strength.
Again the car ride was silent, and again she gave me a deep kiss when we returned to campus. I wanted to ask her back to my place, but it didn't seem quite right. Maybe I'd have the courage after the next date.
We went to Ted Drewes every night that week. The next week I just bought a gallon of ice cream from Bear Mart and we did our routine in my dorm room. Somehow she found a different way to do it every night, and somehow it felt better every night. The girl sure knew how to mix things up. I tried to reciprocate every time, but she would never let me. I never even got to see her boobs or anything.
"I get plenty of pleasure doing it to you," she said with a dimply smile.
"I'd love to see your sexy body," I told her.
"Maybe I'll do it naked next time." Then she left. She always left. I never asked her to spend the night, but I figured the invitation was always just kind of implied. It wasn't like she ever left sad either. She left like it was time to go. But I didn't mind so much, especially with the prospect of seeing her naked the next night.
Next time came and went without any nudity on her part. I started to wonder if she had some serious deformities, or if maybe she was actually a dude. Maybe her body was covered in gonorrhea and the very sight of it would burn my eyes and cause my dick to fall off. I knew it was all ludicrous, that she was really probably just sensitive about her body or something like that, but it became my vow that I would get her naked one of these days.
The nightly ice cream blow jobs went on for the next month. Finals were getting close, and I knew her grades were suffering, but that wasn't what concerned me. I didn't have a place to stay in St. Louis for the summer, and I wasn't sure how I could go three months without her slurping cold cream off my sack. But soon I had an even bigger worry.
On the last day of April, the thirty-fifth straight night of BJs, I realized something as I watched her swallow my balls whole: I was in love with Krista. Not just in love with the idea of getting such exotic sexual pleasure, but actually in love with her as a person. I was just flat out in love with her. I wanted to marry her on the spot. She was my soul mate. Of course, I wasn't able to tell her because I blew my load right before the words came out, and the moment kind of faded when she sat there and ate my semen, but the thought never left my head. I was in love with her, and I needed to return the favor. I was going to eat custard off what I was certain was a delicious pussy, and I was going to do it that very night.
"Krista," I told her in my most serious tone.
"Yes?"
"I want to take you to Ted Drewes right now, and I want to go down on you with a big cup of vanilla custard."
She smiled and looked to ponder the idea for a moment.
"It would mean a lot to me. I want to taste the custard. I want to taste you."
I'd finally said the magic word. "Let's go," she said.
She kept her hand on my crotch the whole drive. I wasn't sure if it was an attempt to divert my attention away from her and back to my own pleasure, but all I could think about was how I was going to do it and how good it was going to taste. I knew the custard was incredible by her reaction every night. It couldn't have been the flabby and wrinkly scrotal skin that satisfied her cravings so much. No, there was something much more than that. I'd noticed that she didn't enjoy it as much when we used the ice cream from Bear Mart. The frozen custard was the key. Of course, that gave me the horrified thought that she was only using me, but I couldn't quite figure out how. Whatever she was doing though, there were so many thoughts rushing through my head, and that made me even more convinced that I was in love with her. And I was going to tell her right after I licked the final bit of custard off her vagina.
It was a Thursday, so the line wasn't as bad as usual. We got to the front within three minutes and had our cup of vanilla custard.
"Let's go to the park," I said with a smile.
"Why don't we do it at your place instead?" she said.
I agreed and Krista went back to the window to ask for some dry ice. "Gotta keep it frozen," she said as I opened the passenger door for her.
Even though I knew the custard wouldn't melt anytime soon, I drove fast and recklessly back to campus. Luckily the cops weren't out in full force that night.
My hands were shaking so much when we got back to the dorm that I had to swipe my card four times before the machine finally read the strip and let us in.
"Relax," she told me, but I just kept shaking.
"I'm just so excited for this," I told her. She smiled her dimply smile and I could tell how cute she thought my nervousness was.
As soon as we opened my door I did what I'd wanted to do since the first date. My hands went up under the shoulder straps of her little sundress, and down it went. Her body was immaculate. Not a mole or pimple or tan line to be found. I couldn't even detect the slightest bit of body hair as I studied every nook and cranny of her.
"Your body is flawless," I told her.
"Oh, I'm sure there are flaws," she said in what I assumed was false modesty. Then I had this horrible thought that as soon as I took off her panties I would be knocked out by some awful smell emanating from her crotch. I pulled them down carefully and was relived at the sweet scent that wafted out of her nicely-trimmed vaginal area.
"Flawless," I said again as I grabbed the cup out of her hand and gently led her down to the bed. She draped her legs over the side and I dropped to my knees, pushing apart her legs in the process.
"Your hands are so cold," she said playfully.
I didn't say anything, instead dipping two fingers in the custard and spreading it right above and right below her vagina. Then I plunged my tongue inside her and started lifting it up and down. The custard seeped into my nose, but all I could taste was her. It was liked eating a slightly overripe strawberry. Not a mushy or browning one. Just one that had gone a little past its peak, which is exactly how I like my berries. I knew at once why she got so much pleasure from doing it to me, and I knew she must love me back. It was probably the greatest moment of my life, eating her strawberry snatch with the prospect of the best frozen custard in the world for dessert.
As I continued to slide my tongue up and down and in and out, Krista moaned and rubbed her hands all over her perfect body. I placed my hands underneath her butt and lifted her hips a little off the bed, my tongue sinking deeper into the strawberry patch. She began panting and her hands reached for my head and dug into my scalp. I pulled her up higher and bounced in and out and then let her drop. After pulling my tongue out, I asked if she was ready. She nodded her head furiously like she'd never been this ready for anything. I was glad to see she knew how I'd felt all this time.
I could feel semen trickling out of my penis as I listened to her anticipatory pants and stared at her custard-surrounded vagina. Then I went in for the dessert. My tongue slid out of my mouth and I slowly leaned in. The moment the tip hit the custard, I recoiled, my face curling up and my mouth closing hard on my tongue. "Blah!" I said as I spit the bit of custard out of my mouth.
Krista panted a few more times before she realized that I had stopped.
"What's wrong she asked?" springing up to a sitting position.
I stood up off my knees and spit twice more. "That custard tastes like shit," I said. "It's the worst custard I've ever had."
"Are you serious?" Krista asked as she reached for the cup to test it. After one bite she said, "You're insane. This is amazing. It's just the best there is."
"No, no, it's gross."
"Are you saying I'm gross?"
I started to stutter and stumble on my words. "No, not at all," I managed. "You taste incredible," I said after I had gathered myself. "Please let me wipe off this awful custard and just finish the job."
She stood up and went for her panties and dress. "I've never been so offended in my life," she said.
"What are you doing? Please don't go," I pleaded.
"I'm not going to stick around with someone who just trashes the things I love." Krista was already in her dress.
"Who cares if I don't like the custard? I like you. No, I love you," I said, but I'm not sure she even heard me before she marched out the door.
I wanted to follow her, but I knew sometimes it was best just to give it some space. Besides, I wanted to get the awful taste of the custard out of my mouth.
The next day, I called Krista three times and went to her dorm once. Of course she never answered. I felt awful that she was offended, but I knew I hadn't really done anything wrong. Maybe I had overreacted to the custard though. Later I asked one of my suitemates if he wanted to go get some frozen custard.
"Sounds kinda gay, but sure," he joked.
"Ever heard of this place called Ted Drewes?"
"Yeah," he said. "The people around here just rave about it. It's like their Disney World or something."
John and I went off to Ted Drewes. He was from just outside Milwaukee, and he talked about all the great frozen custard they had up there. Coming from the heart of dairy country, I knew he was an expert on the stuff.
The line wasn't bad when we got there, so we didn't get much time to contemplate our order. He ordered an Oreo concrete and I got a chocolate one. We sat on the car and ate it while talking about Krista.
"You've been spending a lot of time with her," he said.
"Yeah, I know, but I think maybe that's over now," I said with a big spoonful in my mouth. I choked it down, but it really wasn't very good.
"What happened?" he asked.
"It's a little complicated, but I guess we could say it all boils down to a difference of opinion."
"That's too bad," he said. "She seemed like a good catch."
I thought about how right he was as we continued to eat. I wasn't sure why I kept eating it. Although it wasn't as cringe worthy as I had made it out to be the night before, it was pretty lousy. Probably the worst custard I'd ever had.
"You know," he said as we sat on the car, "this really isn't that good. Why does everyone rave about it?"
A couple of buff guys glared at us as they walked by. We wondered if they overhead his comment, and we thought maybe we should go before we got beat up.
"I guess some people just have a lot of pride in where they grew up," I said.
"Yeah, makes sense. The custard back home is way better than this. If you ever visit, you should come try it."
"Maybe I will," I said, but first I wanted to go a few months without any ice cream products and without any sex. It would probably be good for me. My balls needed some time to thaw out, and although I hadn't really been eating any ice cream, I was starting to put on some weight. Maybe I could start working out and find a normal girl and just have regular old sex, sans frozen treats.


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Nathaniel Tower writes fiction, teaches English, and manages the online lit magazine Bartleby Snopes. He has authored over 200 published stories. When not writing, he can be found joggling through the streets.

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Author: Nathaniel Tower

Contributor: Brian J. Smith
Writing as Chance

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SHE EASES HIM ONTO THE EDGE OF THE BED AND STEPS BACK. SHE BITES bashfully on her thumb, stares seductively at him and slides her hand down the left crease of her strapless red dress; the front of the dress pushes her bosom high up on her chest. He shrugs off his camel-colored work shirt, lets the lamplight from the bedside table trace the contours of his rock-hard stomach, and tosses it over the back of a nearby chair. She slides the dress down her slender frame, exposes ashen skin pulled taut over her ribs and feels it caress her ankles on its way to the floor. He discards his blue jeans, leaves them in a heap around his feet and steps out.
“Looks like I’ve bagged me a good one.” She says.
“I was just about to say the same thing to you.”
Without hesitation, she jumps across the room and wraps her arms tightly around his shoulders. Their kiss is gentle as their tongues swab the caverns of each others mouths. Giggling through their kisses, she pushes him onto the bed, slides out of his grasp and licks his groin; she pants heavily as the lamplight now winks off the saliva
coating her tongue. He writhes under the blanket of euphoric pleasure she provides, sits up to watch her work and then lifts her up and casually tosses her on the bed.
She rolls over on her stomach, plants her knees into the bedspread and welcomes him in. Feeling every inch of him sliding into her, she moans under her breath and peers over her shoulder at him.
“Oh, God. Right there, baby.” She pants as she digs her white-knuckled nails into the bedspread. “Pound me now, motherfucker.”
Gripping her sides like they were handlebars, he drives his cock hard inside of her, pops her head back as he slides in and out, in and out. Her body racked by his pelvic thrusts, she stares down at the mattress as something deep inside grows hot and relentless. She feels it now and she loves every second of it as his cock plunges into her again and again and again. The bed springs creaks under their combined weight; the bleached wood headboard knocks against the rough yellow wallpaper and sends second-hand photos into a scratchy, swaying frenzy. She tugs on the bedspread again as their orgasms collide with one another; spilling his hot load inside her doubles him over and presses his stomach against her upturned buttocks.
Falling onto the bed together, she says, “That was great.”
“You were wonderful.”
She rolls over to the left and he flinches.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She says, sounding apologetic. “I didn’t mean to—.” “It’s okay, honey. Everything seems to be intact.”
They look down past their stomachs and smile. The bright pink tube starts at the tip of his shaft and connects with the center of vagina; it pulsates like a helpless earthworm as it pumps a continuous depletion of sperm. He brushes a strand of hair away from her forehead and admires her in the glow of the bedside lamp. He can’t believe how pretty she is. He almost quivers when he stares into her vivid blue eyes.
“How many do you think we’ll have?”
“Two to three.” She says as she rests her head on his elbow.
“So many names,” He says and stares up at the ceiling with brown eyes bright by with both love and accomplishment. “so many possibilities.”


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Brian J. Smith has been featured in such anthologies E-Mails of the Dead, Book Of Cannibals 2: The Hunger, Pill Hill Press’ 365 Days of Flesh Fiction, Metahuman Press’ The Dead Walk Again and such magazines as Dark Gothic Resurrected Magazine and New Voices In Fiction and such e-zines as Postcard Shorts, The Horror Zine, Thrillers Killers and Chillers, The Carnage Conservatory, The New Flesh and The Flash Fiction Offensive. He currently resides in Chauncey, Ohio with his mother, his brother the writer J.R. Smith and six dogs. His novella “Dark Avenues” is available for download for Kindle; he’s also available on Facebook and Twitter.

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Author: Brian J. Smith

Contributor: Sez A

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In darkness it’s easier to reminisce. It’s the dream you see, sucking my eyelids. The skeletal doctor hovering above performed an idle dance. But I recall your small voice, “resting”, it said, as I felt the abominate wriggling through my nose. The icy slumber is rotting, bitter rims painted with slime hardened and still you licked my torment in farewell


- - -
Sez A likes words and draws things. She's a big fan of vodka.

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Author: Sez A

Contributor: Robert E. Petras

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I promised to give them something to remember
at the Halloween party for the rest of their lives,
me all dressed up as the Flasher Vampire.
I’d swing open my Count Dracula cape
and flash a big rubber dong and goose them all—
Snow White and the Seven Dorks, the Mojo Man,
Little Redneck Riding Hood, Prince Uncharming—
showed them all, showed Charlie Chaplin
some real slap-dick comedy as I dick-slapped
the gal wearing the nun costume, all the time
accosting them with my best Bela Lugosi “good evening,”
“Good evening, princess, good evening, Amish Amy,
good evening, your geekness and
I’d flash and swing my rubber dong and once told
the Genie if she rubbed it three times
I’d grant her three wishes.
Mullet Man I flashed, Wonder Bra Woman I flashed,
I even flashed them the flesh, then I flashed my fangs
--the real ones—
making good on my promise to give them something
to remember the rest of their lives,
what little remained,
their lives indeed gone in a flash.


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Robert E. Petras is a graduate of West Liberty State University and a resident of Toronto, Ohio. His poetry and fiction have appeared in more than 150 publications.

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Author: Robert E. Petras

Contributor: Misti Rainwater-Lites

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They met at a poetry reading. Billy was the star poet. He sold six copies of his latest poetry collection, Use A Dick. Lori was a fan. Billy’s biggest fan ever, she claimed.

“Would you sign my book, please?” Lori asked Billy with a shy smile. Billy couldn’t take his eyes off Lori’s considerable cleavage.
“Certainly. What’s your name, babe?” Billy asked.
“Lori,” Lori said with a giggle.
Billy signed the book and handed it to Lori with a wink. Lori read the inscription. _Lori, I’d love to use my dick on you. Love & Stuff, Billy._ Lori blushed and giggled. She grabbed Billy’s black pen and scrawled her phone number on his left forearm.
“I’ll never wash my arm again,” Billy said.

The wino motel room lacked ambiance but Billy and Lori weren’t there for candles and roses. They weren't there for Rod Stewart and his ridiculous raspy lies. They weren't there for crown molding and champagne eclipse drapes. They weren't there for Monet prints and exquisite fern colored carpet.

Lori moaned as Billy spilled cheap merlot on her gargantuan breasts and licked it off. Billy sucked on Lori’s erect nipples. Lori grabbed Billy’s hair and begged for his dick.
“You want my dick, baby?” Billy murmured in Lori’s ear.
“Fuck yes I want it!”
“Where do you want it, sweetness?”
“I want it deep inside my pussy. My pussy is starving for your sweet dick.”

At least a dozen new poems, long ones, formed and pulsated in Billy’s brain as he used his dick on Lori, as he surrendered his dick to Lori’s throbbing pussy. Someday maybe he’d write the fuckers down.


- - -
I like to drink beer and play with my vibrator.

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Author: Misti Rainwater-Lites

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Author: Dirky Henkel

Contributor: Ted Minnow

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There were two humans walking in the forest. They had penises. They were walking towards a house.

Sam: “Are we there yet?”

Lauren: “Yes.”

And they were. There was a house, right there in the forest. It had all the normal things houses did, except for a door or windows. It was made of concrete. Out of the house stepped a person. Sam and Lauren had come to see this person.

“Hello, people,” said the person.

“Hello, friend,” Sam and Lauren said at the same time.

“Yes, come in.” The person thought Sam and Lauren were pretentious to use that word, friend. They were not friends. None of them were friends. None of them had friends.

But Sam and Lauren did. They thought they had many friends. There was the person who gave them entrance to the forest. There was that tree who was alive. There was this person now, who had come out of the concrete house. And there was the one inside they had come to see. That was a friend, in there, they thought.

Inside the house they saw the person they had come to see. The person showed them to the person they had come to see. Sam and Lauren sat in front of the person and bowed, to show their difference.

“Did you enjoy the forest?” the person asked.

“It’s a nice forest.”

“It is. And it would be better with animals. But that is why we are here.”

“What do we call you?”

“I am the Master with an upper case M,” said the Master.

“Good,” said Lauren.

“Good,” said Sam.

“Have a drink,” said the Master. The Master thought Sam was odd and Lauren was a foil.

“Thank you,” they said. They had the drink.

“Now,” said the Master. “Do you have your penises?”

“Yes,” they said. They handed the Master their penises.

The Master took their penises and held them up to the light, then used a machine to measure their length, their thickness. The Master waved the penises around, hit them against the walls, smacked the penises with an open hand, then a closed hand. While doing this the Master thought about a forest, somewhere else, with ideal things, especially animals.

“Good,” the Master said. “Where did you get these penises?”

“We got them from the tree who was alive,” Sam said. Lauren nodded.

“Wait!” said the Master, throwing the penises on the floor, into the corner. “What did this tree look like?”

Sam and Lauren looked at each other. Then they said, “We can’t remember.”

“Remember! Remember! What did the tree look like? Describe the tree to me!” The Master came to them and shook them, angry and violent.

“We cannot remember. We did not see.”

The Master growled from the chest. “I cannot accept your penises. Leave this house. Leave this forest. Go find another forest to ruin with your tree penises!” The Master pointed out the door. Sam and Lauren left the house.

They walked back through the forest the way they had come. They got to the tree who lived and looked at it for the first time. Then they looked around at the forest, at all the things there, at all the things missing. They looked at each other.

“You have a freckle on your nose,” he said.

“You have brown hair,” she said.


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Theodore Kanbe is a student at the University of Wyoming. A native of Wyoming, he strives to write out his mind.

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Author: Ted Minnow

Contributor: Stacy Maddox

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I savor the way your thick seed
Runs quickly down my quivering thighs
As I stand to put on slowly, unhurried
My bikini bottom and suntan lotion

I take my own time with looks
Under hooded, satisfied green eyes
I haven't a care in the world
As you watch me flip streaked hair

You wander off to the kitchen
As I gather the towels and radio
Winding the dial up to the station
To music I'm in the mood for today

I close the sliding glass door
And make a path straight to you
Pinning you against the sink
Suggesting I want your sex again

Rubbing my hands, seeking you out
Sliding my sensitive, white breasts
Over the silver hoop that hangs
Through your small left nipple

Nibbling your ear, I feel you suck
Your breath in swiftly, almost startled
You're hard again, to my delight
I smile a secret smile to myself

Whispering words of lovers
I ask do you know
How good it really feels
To have your cum in my panties

Looking like a Cheshire Cat
I walk slowly back to the deck
Knowing that you will follow me out
And take me to this place again.


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Stacy Maddox lives, dreams and writes in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS. Stacy has been published in Shades Of Expression by Gerl Publishing, The Medulla Project, Daily Love, Emerge Literary Journal, Three Line Poetry and Mused: The BellaOnline Literary Review. She has been passionate about poetry, photography, music, quotes and stories for over 30 years.

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Author: Stacy Maddox

Contributor: Andrew Ross

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Love is like Ratkiller. I came up with this idea a few months ago. I found rat droppings in my house and I could hear this rat running around in the walls and across the floor and shit when I was sleeping. So I bought some of those rat cages, those supposedly animal-friendly fuckers that poison the rat to death. I placed those cages all over the motherfucking house. I spent three days finding cupboards, closets, whole fucking crawl spaces I’d never even seen before—shit not even on the fucking blueprints—just so I’d be sure if this motherfucking rat was going to run around my house, then this motherfucking rat was going to run into a cage. You know what I’m saying? So I placed the cages carefully—commando style—and waited. I heard noises in the walls. The next day nothing. And I’m like, that’s right bitch. Don’t even try to fuck with me.
Except then, the third day, I hear running in the walls. This motherfucking rat wouldn’t die. This motherfucking rat was the baddest motherfucking rat of all bad motherfucking rats. He knew it, I knew it. So, I got my keys, started the car and started driving around the streets till I find a stray cat. I plop that raggedy ball of raggedy fur on the front seat and I grab it by the throat. I drive home with one hand on the wheel holding this scraggly furball with the other.
And I tell it, Listen I have this big bad motherfucking rat in my house. And I want you to kill it and eat it. Then I say, I don’t want to be friends. I’m using you for what I want and you’re getting what you need. But this rat is all you get. I don’t feed you, I don’t keep you. Just so we’re crystal clear on the nature of our relationship, I’m going to call you Ratkiller. Because that’s all you are to me.
And then I stopped at my house, threw Ratkiller inside and locked the door. Two days later I came home, opened the door, grabbed Ratkiller by the throat, threw her out, shut the door. Never seen rat or Ratkiller since.
Everyone knows his or her role in advance. No expectations. No one gets hurt.


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I am a graduate of the Fiction Writing graduate program at Johns Hopkins. I've published stories in Penn-Union and The Medulla Review, where my story "A Breaking Up" was anthologized. My original play "The Rebel" was produced and performed at the Avalon Theater in Easton, MD.

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Author: Andrew Ross

Contributor: Kymera Dix

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I’m eating, again.

I’m always eating.

It hurts not to.

Not like the hurt when I hit my baby toe, or somethin.

Oh, I admit that that =really= hurts...a lot.

This is more like a bad tooth ache or strep throat.

All over.

It don’t gradually go away on its own.

It stays and stays and keeps getting worser and worser.

Until I gotta take =sometin= to ease da hurtin.

My sumtin is food.

Soze I eat an eat an eat.

Stopped by da Chineze place onna way home tday.

Gotta shrimp eggroll.

Came home, picked out all doze teeny, tiny shrim.

Flustem.

Watched dey lil naked krussashun korpses swirl way into toilet blivian.

Awmoze fell comin owta da batroom.

geddin seepy nah

all dem pills

bedda take some mo

justa be sho

chasem wi beah

awmoz geddin too seepy t eat

dasa laff

bess eda ro nah

chazit

gutza churnin awweady

shrim jooz

gon lay don nah

faysh don

shud puke inna cupla owaz

b seep

wone no

schtopt nshuwanz las wee

justa b sho

heh


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Author: Kymera Dix

Contributor: Chris Vola

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1.

One evening Uncle shat into your sister and reached for a towel.

“Snap Crackle and Pop,” he said, and you shoved his snakeskin then, for you and your sister, into the corner table next to him until its head split and he made you lick the ketchup off and your dad charged in and you were bellowing through the house with your tee shirts pulled up, fleeing to your room and hidden under your blanket, exposed. You thought they would smack your bellies then.

Instead, things were quiet for hours. You fell asleep being aliens. Afternoons spent you up.

Your asleep sister was fine, then screaming at the wall, “We’re not afraid of you,” regenerated, grown into two new heads, mothlike as she jumped, punctuating the word kitchen and wanting to know if you wanted some and laughing like crazy. At some point your sister’s throat slit was swallowing mint chips, silently muttering.

The weirdness of being a twentysomething. The things that make Rice Krispies (the snapcracklepop), the things that make your snake. You hadn’t considered the sharp things you did. You smeared ketchup on slices cracked open, your sister’s slices.

Your sister started wailing and left the bread on both your plates. You ran around demanding to know what had happened. You, your heads, arms still in the sleeves, stomachs expecting horrible punishment at any moment.

Oyoyoy! you thought.

Eventually your dad woke and came in. His head had split in two. “Uncle the Grouch!” you shouted that over and over.

Uncle came in, having some ice cream in his “grouch” and landing on your back slits instead of the front ones. You tottered from the kitchen as one expressing displeasure at a given situation.

Your dad licked his lips. “Snap Crackle and Pop,” the old mouth.

One remembers the origin of this phrase.


2.

At the side of the water mattress, your dad had the morning, yelling the orders back to your sister, watching the TV, whatever was on anymore. He only poured coffee to read the paper.

The court roundup was messy, lots of ketchup, and he gave you and your sister wet naps. He didn’t read the deaths. He didn’t have to.

“Right your snakes!” your sister belched to everyone in particular, drooling ketchup.

That night, your bodies wriggled like slugs drowning in salt rain.


3.

Your dad took you into the city. He liked to scratch his ticket around.

While you waited in the gas station parking lot he bought sandwiches and a lotto – it was a Powerball day. The ride had been short, but your sister was scared of the radio and the fall asleep:

“Everything is good! Everything is really good,” squawked the same radio people who make America the country.

What you thought they were saying was like before you were a twentysomething when your dad had had to come in to buy the Ceremonial Super-Lotto in Bushwick and there’d been no more but you said how you liked to eat oranges, so your dad had bought several.

The fleshy bone is gross, you thought. Tradition traduces no oranges.

“Home Depot?” the gas station man asked when he came to the car back with your dad.

Can you imagine how happy your dad was! This used to be what the men he used to bring to the car called Home Depot, but that had been before Uncle, before whatever else your dad had told you was in the papers. Before your dad had to drive his post-suburban vehicle forty-five minutes to welcome “women-boys and gays” and everybody else in the metropole who knew how to get to your Home Depot. It had been a requirement.

“Once you were airstrikes in São Paulo,” the gas station man muttered as he unbuckled your buckles and licked at his mustache. “Once you were telemarketers in Sri Lanka. Once you were e-readers in bull rings.”

Your sister rubbed the gas station man’s belly and before biting his open snakeskin winked at you and whispered, “We have been enough.”


4.

The highway was closed. FASCIST-DOGMA-NECTAR-OVERFLOW streamed across the ketchupy sky.

“We only cradle what we distill,” you dad muttered to the absence of space or maybe the rear-view.

“I dream of ATMs burning,” your soggy sister moaned into your ear.


5.

Back in the kitchen your dad made you old catfish from the grill. Before that, you ate on ping pong balls.

“Stop it,” your sister said. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” or “You’re off.”

You never actually did it, you never screamed in the kitchen.

At a quarter to seven, the tsunami your dad had told you about brought Uncle in the door and let him use the bathroom. He was teary eyed, Uncle. Your sister made him wipe his finger sometimes, then, too.

You had a memory of Uncle’s cracking on your face. When you cocked your head back because you could just feel it melting. Uncle made you do things you didn’t want to, he had really cracked the Home Depot Code.

Did you know what was even weirder tonight? His new boxer shorts, and then you were both wet-legged?

Always a soggy way for Uncle.


6.

Excitation is an elevation of energy level above an arbitrary baseline energy state. Your sister’s brain did not know that the lifetime of a system in an excited state is usually short.

Your dad dropped your sister in mid-air. She fell into Uncle’s “grouch,” both pockets filled with pajamas. You wanted to run upstairs to hide in your room.

“Don’t you dare,” your dad belched, and “God, don’t twist my words around,” spitting at Uncle’s tsunami-slick mouth. You tip-toed over to the freezer. You had to do it.

“I broke my neck! I broke my neck!”

Your sister’s pieces rolling in the spilled ketchup, at least forty pints.


7.

The next afternoon, Doctor came into the room for a chat. She liked to scratch her ticket around.

She couldn’t understand the ketchupy kitchen – “And on a Powerball day,” she clucked, her brown hair flopping in catfish oil from the grill while the TV laughed into a speech.

Your sister sucked on ping pong balls. Her machine sucked.

And for no good reason.

You removed the lid from the cookie tray. Mint-chip cookies Doctor had made. Doctor stood there in the dark for a minute. You liked her helium voice, you liked her white bread. You liked her jotting fingers. Your sister’s swollen stitches were an alien way. Doctor made you both take a picture of it.

Your sister sucked.

Doctor made a cluck, and your dad woke and came in the kitchen.

This is what Doctor did: she stabbed your dad with frowns and mega-clucks like her brow was bigger than Brooklyn.

But your dad was smart. Your dad was crafty. He was Crafty the Grouch. He knew what to do. He looked alien sad, and then found his escape in Doctor’s white shoe, started doling out nicknames to what happened when your sister’s head tsunamied the ketchup, when the karmic assload flooded out of the kitchen:

“Uncle would have stopped, but he wasn’t in the breakdown lane,” and, “It’s bad glands.”

Doctor was so fat she couldn’t hold her pen any longer. Her fingers stopped jotting.

“To ruminate is not to be right,” she told your dad.

“Snapcracklepop,” he grinned.

As Doctor spooned you mint chips, a shimmer of dead skin sailed furiously across her heel. She sighed, knowing that she could, that summer evening, lay thick and still upon her Brooklyn bed.

“Your family has good teeth,” she explained, an abstract theme that meant everything was Powerball good: you and your sister would have catfish from the grill and Uncle would remember and behave within the Code.

She made your dad wipe his finger before she heaved into her idling Hummer and shot off to Wal-Mart for the sale on Succulent Melanomas.

Your dad’s dark lips curved like pomegranates.


8.

The earthquake brought Uncle in the door at a quarter to seven.

Uncle?

Oyoyoyoyoyoy! you thought.

He spread his worksheets out across the kitchen, and some soggy yogurt for you and your sister. Your dad made him wipe his finger, smiled, smiled, then frowned when he remembered Doctor and the Code.

Do you know what your dad did? He pulled over Uncle, communicated to him in furrows and whisperings, just like the Universe was his brow.

“Slit it back up inside,” and, “It’s better on your face than your hands.”

He paused, then, “Sike!”

Uncle had good teeth. He let you and your sister see their size.

You had to swallow mint chips not to scream, you had to find a semi-quiet area, or, in a sense, a non-word.

Where is it? Or, What? Or, Oh!

Your sister sucked on ping pong balls. Her machine sucked.


9.

The things you did when no one was looking.

Here is what happened: Your sister’s scrunched toes against Uncle’s chilly grinning face, the wet under his plaid trousers just starting to quicken. Your dad was in the corner, answering four a.m. phone calls –

“It was about the lake,” and, “He brought her to the Far Side,” and, “Deep in winter and nobody was around.”

Your sister screamed and you knew you had to do it.

You tip-toed past your dad, the fridge was open, and you shoved Uncle’s snake, more than snakeskin because the corner table crushed his thin tin dome near the base of his ketchupy brain. His big nose? There would be no more soggy way.

Your sister’s smug smile of satisfaction, the first in the history of the kitchen.

Uncle’s face was stuck in a perpetual crackle, the feeling of having the shit thrown
out of his molecules. But you hadn’t dared to smile because your dad was smart. Your dad was fast. Your dad flew from the corner faster than your sister could say “Cheap-ass-dirtbag!” and snapcracklepop, and he was squatting on top of your chest, screaming into your face, way, way, way crazier than ever.

“The Code!” he screamed, “THE CODE!”

He wasn’t going to stop, he was way past the breakdown lane. But he didn’t know that after you shoved Uncle sense, your sister had obtained non-screaming-mantra-status, this new kind of steel-hard self-identity. You saw your sister the alien lift the Magic Marker over your dad’s white bread.

You saw your sister the alien slice through your dad’s ugly ceiling.

You saw your dad’s rubbery eyes plop onto your face like a piece of catfish smacking against the kitchen floor. It was ketchup-overload.

That was why you started laughing, why you couldn’t stop even when your sister the alien made you wipe your finger, when she made you swallow mint chips.

“Snap, crackle, and…POP!” you laughed again and again.


10.

Doctor made you take a picture of it. Then she made you look again.

“I feel really sorry for you,” one of her favorite accusations, and “Time, after all, can only perform so many operations at once.” She reminded you of a pay phone booth
that was missing its pay phone.

Her fingers didn’t have to jot down anything anymore. Your sister looked past the kitchen, the door with its bell, the shards of sirens in the front yard, the highway, the slit of ketchup-light in the trees.

Nobody was around. You didn’t know where they were at.

Remembering her idling off-road artillery vehicle and the heavy afternoon traffic, Doctor stood up. Teary-eyed, she left yogurt and catfish, trying to remember her place within the Code.

No, she couldn’t bring you home, “but you were relatively young and could be anything” – writers of love poetry, Turks with smartphones, banana-yellow Blue-Staters.

“Leave our soggy pocket to make its own time,” your sister snarled, “we have been enough.”

Doctor nodded, then vanished in a cloud of formaldehyde and diesel-fuel. It was now your job to realize that you and your sister were really alone.

That evening, you both fell asleep being aliens.


11.

Two molecules must influence each other in such a way that they function as a more or less stable whole.

Your organism must water and flower. Your sister’s organism must metabolize. Your organisms drank twenty-five Mexican Screwdrivers and stabbed with cracked retinas.

Crumbling train to Brooklyn, your self-righteous pilgrim.

Mutual symbiosis and a torn black pigment. A bleached asshole. Your sister labeled this variation morphogenesis, she labeled your smoked-out apartment a chemical factor, she labeled her hips a sudden white streak. You discarded the ability of your systems to maintain a stable condition by means of multiple dynamic equilibrium adjustments controlled by interrelated regulation mechanisms.

Your sister imagined how filthy the gas station man’s sandals must have been.

A sound: your sister’s ketchup nails carving the backbone of six blind stanzas separated by a sparrow at the window grate. His white bread, your snake, the real contraction of all that passed by.

“Omne vivum ex ovo,” your sister moaned, until your ears spilled the taste of your dad’s deep-fried mistake.


- - -
Chris Vola is the author of a novel, Monkeytown, forthcoming from S A M Publishing. He lives in New York.

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Author: Chris Vola

Contributor: Kyle Yadlosky

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“Just let me out, baby,” my girlfriend, Trisha’s voice drifts from the bathroom. “I think I’m late.”
My back is pressed against the door so she can’t escape, legs squared. “No, no,” I say. “Let’s not call it, yet. It just hit midnight.”
“Come on. Let me out. You know nothing bad’s gonna happen.”
“That’s the demon talking.”
Through the door, I hear her sit on the toilet. She sighs into her hands.
“You might wanna take off your panties,” I suggest.
She huffs at that. Then, her breathing shakes, breaking into sobs. She hicks and gasps, and I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. Shattered breaths piece together out of her mouth. She sobs and wails in low tones. Then, the crying turns to panting, then laughing. Then, she cackles. The cackling rises, cut by quick inhales. She screeches toward the door, loud and constant. The sink, tub, and toilet start to vibrate. The pipes rattle.
I step back.
Then, with a thump, everything stops still, quiet.
It’s day one.
Some women have heavy flows, others low. Men, we don’t try to understand. We just endure. And the women suffer. Lady pains—their bleeding, changing personalities—it’s demonic possession. Every woman has a little demon burrowed inside her vagina.
On day one, the blood pours. I press a towel under the bathroom door. Deep, straining moans rumble from Trisha’s throat. The toilet vibrates lightly. Blood drips steadily. It flows onto the floor, where it splashes and pools. I pray it doesn’t leak into our downstairs neighbor’s apartment. I pray the floor doesn’t cave in. The blood drains from her until she turns blue.
I can hear a tide forming. Blood splashes on top of itself with nowhere to go. Trisha groans once, desperate and low, and she kicks. Her foot splashes the blood, which streams and slams into the door. It soaks straight through the towel with enough force to push it out. Blood seeps into the walkway, and my hands stain red from touching it.
I grab a mop and bucket and begin to work. I sop up all the blood I can as my girl moans and groans, bleeding a river, from behind the door. I fill my mop, and I twist the red fluid into the bucket. I fill the bucket, and I get another. By the time she’s done, I’ve filled four. It’s about eight pm. I haven’t slept since midnight.
I lift the four buckets, two in each hand, and shove aside the bathroom door. The stench strikes me first—gagging, so thick you can taste copper. The floor is soaked in a straight red streak. I dump the buckets in the bathtub and mop the bathroom floor. I use straight long swipes, using cleaner, making sure not to leave a drop behind. I use a towel and surface cleaner to wipe up the thick candy-cane stripe running down the toilet. I lift Trisha’s legs. She twitches and grunts against me. I wipe the toilet seat. I flush the toilet, clean out anything sticking to the bowl. Trisha didn’t remove her panties. I peel them off, toss them in the bathtub, and clean her up. Then, I wash my hands and toss the towel I use to dry them in the tub, along with the towel from under the door. I turn the lock on the inside of the bathroom door and step out, shutting it behind me.
Then, I wait.
On day two, it forms. You can hear it crooning in the bathtub, sloshing in itself, feeding off itself. Soon the tub will be clean, drained of every speck of blood. I hear it peeling its congealed body from the porcelain. It opens its mouth and roars. It’s a demon born of Trisha’s blood. Its voice is a synthesized croon. “What am I doing in here?” it shouts. “Why did you put me in here? Am I too ugly? Do you not want to see me? Why don’t you want to see me!”
It screeches and throws itself against the door. The hinges rattle, knob shakes. I start to dawn my equipment.
The first time I battled her demon, I was unprepared. I didn’t mop, and when it formed the blood swirled into a torrent and destroyed my cupboards, stained my counter, even shattered upward through the coffee table to form its demon in the center of my living room. One errant drop can become a bullet.
I’ve moved from that apartment since.
On the start of day three I’m exhausted, heavy pads of hockey gear weighing me down, helmet on tight, axe at the ready. The bathroom door is cracking, the white paint peeling. The demon’s voice pierces through. “Why don’t you love me? Let me out! Don’t you care? I’m in so much pain!”
I sit on the couch, axe across my legs, and my head slumps, eyes close. I can get an hour of shut-eye before the door shatters.
Day four comes in a warm shower of vaginal blood. I sweep my axe through the demon’s body, and it sprays the hot fluid. It stumbles backward, cackling. “Is that it? You never penetrate me deep enough! I guess swinging by yourself all your life hasn’t helped!” It cackles again, loud enough that the downstairs neighbor pounds on his roof.
“Shut the hell up!” he yells.
I swing again, straight for the demon’s mouth.
Trisha’s lady pains started when she was just a girl. She went into the house on every block that no one is supposed to go into—that haunted house. All the kids said a witch lived there. They were right. Trisha broke in one night on a dare. She tried to hide, but the witch found her. She was ten, just starting to spot. The witch smelled it on Trisha, and she cursed the little girl. She cursed that Trisha’s inner demon would claw its way out of her body every month, and that it would never stop, and she would have no control over what it did.
Her family threw her in a deep hole dug in the backyard every month until the demon passed. She’d run away by fourteen.
She’s tried taking pills and using the ring and everything to stop her periods, but nothing works. It only intensifies the demon’s rage. She said she was almost bled to death when she started taking the pills. When she had the ring, the demon tore it out of her body. Doctors around the world have study her and her symptoms. There’s no answer, no cure—
Just like all lady pains.
Day five hurts. The demon has my helmet off, claws scraping under my hair. It screeches, “I wanted to see my mother! Why did you keep me here! Why do you force me to stay here with you!” Her mother’s birthday was last week. I had work; I couldn’t make it. She didn’t want to drive down alone. I told her she could go. The demon never remembers things as they happen.
I yell in pain as it draws blood from my scalp. I pry the demon away with the handle axe’s handle. The blade has since torn off, trapped inside the demon. The demon’s reeling and screaming. “Why did you kill my cat!”
Her cat broke its neck jumping from a tree. I was with her when the veterinarian put it down.
“You never tell me how you feel! I tell you everything, but you never say a word!”
I know it’s best not to talk to the demon. If it can’t think of a new attack, it starts to get dizzy, mutter. I might be able to knock it off balance, stab it to death with a kitchen knife, end this early.
“You think I’m fat and ugly, and you can’t stand me! Look at me! Look at me! You can’t stand me!” I lock eyes with the black orbs on its crimson face. Its forehead is an alien’s. Its mouth is a black hole. Its body is sticking strands of putrid blood. It has no fingers or toes. It’s amorphous, shifting slightly with every second. Where it walks it bleeds, and its words are poison. “Don’t you think I’m beautiful?”
No. But I don’t say that.
“Don’t you think I—I...” it stops and stares at the wall. “Don’t you think...” This is it, my moment. I slip a kitchen knife slowly from our cutting block without attracting attention, and, when I have it in my hand, I lunge.
The demon doesn’t screech. It doesn’t protest. It just dies without knowing what happened.
It’s day six. I’ve slept three hours all week. Now, I’m dragging this mess of dry blood back into the bathroom. Trisha’s blue fingers hang limp at her sides, head down. Her mouth is open. I drop the demon on the ground in front of her. I spread Trisha’s legs. Then, I press the demon head-first against the lips of her vagina. I force the head against her hole, and it stretches.
Trisha gasps, tensing and clawing against the bottom of the toilet bowl. I force the demon in down to its neck. Trisha’s skin starts to color off-white. Then, I steady my feet on the floor and push with my legs to shove the shoulders through her hole. At that she screams, and her body bucks backward. She’s twitching and moaning. Her skin’s going to pink. I take a breath and prepare myself for another push.
The worst is over.
When she told me about her lady pains we were eating. We had been dating for almost a year, and once every month she’d go on a trip to a cabin that she bought, no more than a rundown shack. She’d pass out and let her demon go mad where no one could hear it, out there. Then, when it’d finally pass out, she’d have to force herself from her stupor, weak and drained, and drag her body across splintered wood to shove the demon back in, herself.
No matter how many times she told me she was serious, I thought she was joking. I went with it, though, and now I stay with it. I don’t know what else to say, other than that I really like this girl.
On the seventh day, my girl is back to me. She’s holding me, crying, shaking. She smells awful, like stale blood. She’ll wash as soon as her legs get the strength. That’s when I’ll sleep.
“I’m sorry,” she weeps into my shoulder. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I say into her ear. “It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s not your fault.”
It’s just lady pains.


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Author: Kyle Yadlosky