Contributor: Rasputin

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Everyone has secrets. It doesn’t matter what you appear to be on the outside- no matter how outwardly noble a person seems, deep down, they keep a secret. They keep it locked away in a vault that no safe-cracker can access, and no hypnotist can coax open. They will never admit this one thing, this horrible, loathsome memory, even under pain of torture. And some people have more than one. Some people have entire warehouses in their minds, packed to the brim with tales that range from the merely embarrassing to the damnably unspeakable. Hell, some people even get paid to keep secrets. Oh, the stories…

What I want you to do is think of your secret thing. Go ahead, do it now. It doesn’t matter if there are others in the room- after all, it’s not like they could possibly know what you’re thinking about, right? Your secret has probably crossed your mind countless times in their presence. Hell, it may even involve them, in some way or other. So go ahead. Focus on that despicable thing. Bring it to the forefront of your mind. It’s not like those other assholes will catch on. It’s your mind. Go crazy.

Are you thinking of your one thing? Your favorite little bit of shame? Good.

I know what it is.

If you’re reading this right now (you know who you are), then I know your secret. I know all of them. I know you used to jerk off while you thought about your mother (I also know that you still do). That’s a popular one- it seems Freud was right about something after all.

I know that you drove out of state last week for an abortion, even though you told your boyfriend that you were just visiting some friends from college. I also know it wasn’t your first time. In fact, you’re almost on a first-name basis with the doctor there. Don’t worry, your boyfriend doesn’t have a clue. He’s busy hoping you don’t find out that he’s been fucking your sister off and on for the past six years. She always kept herself in better shape than you, hasn’t she? You always used to blame her for “inheriting the good genes”, although you’ve had the good taste to never say that out loud. You know, the two of them even managed to break off a quickie on your wedding day. Remember when you lost track of him during the reception? They were in the back seat of his car. He told you that those upholstery stains must have come from the car’s previous owner. And you believed it. And all those “business trips”…those were good for a laugh. But that’s ok, because out of all those abortions I mentioned, two-thirds of those weren’t his kids. And you’ve been married for five years. Hell, you’re even thinking of starting a family someday. And your kids will have secrets, too.

I know you cheated on that test to get into law school. You never spent so much as an hour studying. Four years’ worth of your parents’ money, and all you did was drink, get laid, and go on the occasional acid trip. I know you told everyone that you were busting your ever-lovin’ ass to graduate. I know that you’re well on your way to becoming a partner in the firm. Lying, as it turns out, was all the education you really needed.

I know you lost your virginity at summer camp. When you were seven. He was twelve. I know that that was when you realized you were gay. Your wife would love that story.

I know you wet the bed until you were seventeen. I know that until sixteen, you also used to shit in your bed. I know that you used to spend all of your allowance money on new sheets. That’s why you never saved up for that ten-speed you always wanted.

I know how much you used to enjoy bathing your daughter when she was little. I know that that’s the real reason she’s in therapy. She’d never dream of telling the psychiatrist- as far as everyone’s concerned, she’s in therapy because her grades are slipping.

I know that you and your friends beat a gay man to death outside a bar last year. The way he winked at you really rubbed you the wrong way, didn’t it? So much so that you got an erection. I suppose cracking someone’s skull open is one way to deal with pent-up sexual frustration.

I know it was you who called the school with a bomb threat.

I know you stole a nugget of weed from your dad’s stash. You’re not too worried about being caught, because you know that your mom will divorce him if she finds out that he never really quit smoking that awful devil-grass.

I know you spy on your neighbor’s kids when they’re in the backyard pool.

I know you volunteered for the neighborhood watch because it was really you that broke all those car windows. Hey, don’t sweat it- your neighbors don’t know how much you hate them.

I know you drink mouthwash in the morning before work. I know that your husband thinks you’ve been sober for a year.

I know that you’ve been extorting sexual favors from attractive young women, in exchange for being let off with stern warnings about the dangers of driving while intoxicated.

I know you planted drugs in your opponent’s car, and then called the anonymous tipster hotline. If you hadn’t done that, you wouldn’t be mayor right now.

I know you’ve been fucking your heroin dealer in exchange for free junk. I know that you cut your boyfriend’s half of the stash with powdered laxative. He still can’t figure out why you get constipated, but he doesn’t. By the way, when are you going to tell him that you have AIDS? You’ve been sharing needles for the better part of a year now. Well, no big deal- he hasn’t told you about his HPV, either. Ain’t love grand?

I know all of these and many, many more.

“How do you know all this?” I can hear some of you asking. It’s simple, really- I know because it’s my job to know.

Think of me as a kind of storage unit. I keep everyone’s secrets, from the dawn of man until the end of time. Your predatory, back-stabbing nature is why your secrets have grown up around you. If you people weren’t so greedy and withdrawn, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t exist. But your daily lives keep me in business. You all say the same things- “Just be honest with me”; “I can handle the truth”. If you all suddenly started to tell the truth, this world that you’re so proud of would collapse before your eyes. Everything would be thrown out of orbit. It would be a disaster of unimagined proportions. And I don’t want that. I’ve grown attached to this place.

So don’t worry- I’ll never tell a soul about the time you jacked off in the bathroom at work. I won’t let your coworkers know about your fantasies of bringing in a gun and blowing them all to hell. Rest assured- your secret is safe with me.


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Eat a dick.

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Author: Rasputin

Contributor: Sam Gem

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Yea I've killed lot's o animals round these here woods. I lugged around my 22 rifle and I'd shoot just about anything that moved and drew breath. All differnt kinds but mostly dozens o squirrels. No perticular reason for it, I was bored and just thought it was a fun thing to do. Once I tried to adjust the sights of the scope, but I messed it all up. I'd aim for the head and I'd hit their legs, and they'd just go crazy flippin around in pain before spazzin off with leaves flyin all round. I seen one of those I shot again. It had a big gash across it's thigh where the bullet skinned it. This time my rifle was fixed and I laughed and shot it in the belly. Did it think it could meet me twice and still live? Most of it's guts went flyin out. That'd what happens to em when you use hollow bullets, it hollows em right out. I shot a lil bird with one o them bullits and the bird got hollowed out and it just swung under the branch it was clingin too. It just swung upside down for a bit, and you could see right through the hole in it, before it just dropped to the ground on it's head. I thought that was pretty hilarious. Another time while I was stalking the forest, I saw this bird, with a rare colorin, way up on the highest old branch around, sittin right on the tip of it. It was the farthest shot I ever took and I hit it but didn't kill it, and it started to spiral down, still alive enough to break it's own fall, and it took a few minutes to reach the ground where it hopped around lookin at me all scared. I didn't kill im, I just never saw a bird like im before with those colors, and I lived here a long time. There was one animal I didn't kill and that was a cat. I had the crosshairs traind on it a long time I did. But if I did that I would of probably kept goin till I got to killin folks, so I stopped shootin then. But I was a terror in that forest. It won't forget me anytime soon, no way siree.


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Author: Sam Gem

Contributor: Rob Harris

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one

The Squid clung to his hips with its eight arms and wrapped its tentacles around his thighs like climbing ivy. It was gorging on his man pipe, suckling him deep into its bowels, so deep that it felt like it warped through space-time into some pleasure dimension outside normal reality. As the squid scoffed on his wong he felt all gooey and sexually clamorific. Its beak, a soft gelatinous substance, was not like a normal squid beak, instead it was like a vagina made of the same material heaven must be made out of, pressing into his abdomen and balls, teasing his organs and sending shock waves of pleasure through him. He orgasmed so hard he went through his dick and deep into those extra-real dimensions within the Squid. There was a sound like a Schluck as he slid through its velvet-heaven mouth, all but his arm, which was popped off as the hole pinched tight like a sphincter.

Inside the Squid, a portly yet cute Asian woman, dressed in ceremonial kimono, was serving tea to a Siamese cat. The cat was sat on a beautifully crafted deep blue cushion that perfectly complimented its dazzling blue eyes set against its dark tanned marten face that was dignified and betrayed a sense of superiority to this sizeable woman. She was knelt before it, offering a tiny dish with milky tea in it. Her head bowed so low her forehead touched the floor. The cat pawed at the dish, as if testing it for some unknown quality. It seemed satisfied and the woman crawled away backwards, never taking her forehead off the floor. There was an odd schluck noise from her palms every time they pulled from the floor. She shuffled backwards all the way out of the strange chamber they were in, which seemed to pulse and contort, protrusions occasionally spurting forth from the organic purplish walls. Once the woman was gone, the cat stood and stretched before lapping some of the tea from the dish. After a few laps the cat licked itself over, spreading the tea across its fur, it spent an inordinate amount of time on its genital region, but seemed to gain no sexual pleasure in doing so. It checked once more to be sure the woman was not within sight, and then spasmodically attempted to lick the front of its neck. It's course tongue shooting out as it pulled its head back and tucked its chin in. Overall the effect was to severely diminish the cat's supposed cool aesthetic. No wonder it had to reinforce its superiority in front of the woman. It was obviously aware of how ridiculous it looked when it spread the tea over its neck and chest.
There's a kimono over there waiting for you Henry. The cat's voice was sing song, enticing, encouraging. Henry found himself picking up the kimono and slipped into it, unsure as to exactly when he learned how to dress himself in oriental formal wear. Henry finalised his outfit, one sleeve hanging uselessly, and turned to face the cat again.
Now you must bow, Henry. Again, Henry found himself fulfilling the request without hesitation. His face touched the floor, it tasted salty.
Very good. Now you must bring me the gift I asked you for. A vague memory ponderously bumped about in Henry's mind for a moment, before evaporating in the face of the feline desire for satisfaction, satisfaction that he knew he could deliver. He turned his head to his left and found a small tea making facility. Initially he attempted to move his missing arm, the remaining shoulder stump wiggled pathetically. It ached like a bitch. It had miraculously cauterised during the transition through the Squid's mouth but a large amount of pain still shot through him whenever he thought of it.
Silly boy Henry. Try again with your other arm. The one you still have. Henry acknowledged the advice and reached for the small tea pot, decorated with strange characters painted in a rich blue ink. He decanted the brown liquid into a shallow dish.
'Do you take sugar?'
Yes. One please Henry. Henry scooped some out of the decorative sugar pot and sprinkled it into the dish. He then picked up a spoon and, using the back of it, proceeded to aid the dissolution of the sugar into the tea. Afterwards he carefully lifted the cup onto a tray placed beside it, and balanced it on his forearm, trying to wedge it between his elbow and wrist. A none too easy task with only that same arm to perform it. Schluck schluck schluck. Slowly, Henry slid across the floor on his knees and elbow, making sure not to spill the tea from the dish. In front of the cat he lowered his forehead to the ground once again. The cat extended a paw lazily, testing the tea.
Very good. Now go. Henry kept his forehead to the floor as he awkwardly scooted backwards. Schluck Schluck Schluck.

two

The earliest memory Miss Teek had was of being dipped into a barrel of hot brown liquid by a hand gripping the scruff of her neck. It scolded her paws and soaked her fur. She kicked and writhed and banshee wailed in an effort to escape the dark oppressing fluid. Her claws were out and found flesh to puncture and tear at. Slicked and running on adrenaline, she managed to escape the grasp of the man and dashed to safety. From the corner she turned to see the man laughing like a drunk, bawling and slapping his thighs. Suddenly he stopped. His face looked menacing and he reached to his groin. He pulled his trousers down and began roughly handling some disgusting looking tube of flesh hanging from his body. His face tensed and his tongue came out, curling around his upper lip as if in concentration. Suddenly he erupted with a roar, and the tube spat hot white pearls across the floor. The man's face relaxed and he looked dazed. Elated even. Miss Teek used the opportunity to run. She didn't know where she was going, only where she was running from.

Sniffing it, it smelled like the sea. Not unpleasant, but salty and sharp. It's skin was purple and covered by soft, silky pimples. Miss Teek instinctively knew it was not harmful, but possessed some untold power. Pawing it, she turned it over and found a small opening that looked like the entrance to a woman, but one crafted from material more delightful than a typical vagina. It looked enticing. Miss Teek found herself nuzzling into the mouth of this purple sack, it seemed to yawn slightly and she slid her face inside.

three

Once outside the chamber Henry was spat back into the real world, landing in a heap in an alley somewhere. Once he recovered his senses he took in his surroundings properly. A mangy dog was eyeing him from behind a bin. He looked behind him and saw the Squid, slightly shrivelled, and his recently liberated arm. He rolled onto his back and began to laugh. His stump ached like crazy again.

The dog edged forward cautiously at first but then gained confidence and began nosing the discarded Squid. The mouth opened slightly and the dog, as if sensing some pheromones got an erection and slid its cock inside. Thirty seconds later and the dog wailed, orgasmed and inverted through its penis into the Squid.

When it emerged again, sanguine fluid hung from its jowls. There were
several small scratches around its eyes and on its nose.
'Henry.' Henry stopped laughing and looked at the dog. 'You should never have trusted that cat. Now, get on all threes.' Henry nodded sullenly and got to his knees and elbow. The dog waltzed up behind him, mounted and plugged away, finally orgasming and inverting into Henry's insides.


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Author: Rob Harris

Contributor: Rob Bliss

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A new generation of them popped up. Sons and daughters of those goddamn hippies I fought in the ‘60s. Still greasy long hairs, welfare bums, pot-smoking degenerates. If I could still get it up, I’d give them free love with a hard fuck. Leave them by the side of the road where their hitchhiking trail ends. But my dick is dead now, after long years of bad use, so I do what I can.
I wouldn’t pick any of them up, wouldn’t touch them. But I watch for them, thumbs out, packs stitched with patches sagging on their skinny ribbone backs, tie-dye shirts flapping in the breeze, full of holes like their liberal minds.
Travel the back roads looking for them. Where traffic doesn’t happen, just gravel trucks heading away from the pit, loggers, transports that can’t slow down, keeping tight to their schedules. Good hard-working men.
The damn things turn when they hear me, arm stretched out, smiling, hair blowing across their drugged eyes. Sometimes a girl and a boy, losing themselves, finding themselves on the backroads of their nation. My nation.
I rev and crash into their cunts and cocks, dead on or sometimes clipping an arm, a leg, a pack. Whip the bodies into the air, over the hood (smacked spiderweb crack in the windshield, easily repaired, call it a deer if the repairman asks), into the deep ditch of weeds and reeds and trickling streams.
Red coloured across the grass green, the bulrush brown, mud black. A thousand dents in my fender, sidewalls, the passenger and driver mirrors long since smacked off by hard hits.
The damage a small price for thinning the herd, their bone bodies rotting in the country ditches for months, years, picked clean by crow and coyote.
Roads where no one stops to take in the scenery, or the beauty of the countryside, the beauty of good, wholesome god-fearing folk.


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I have a degree in English and Writing. I have been, or will be, published in SNM Magazine, Schlock Webzine, microhorror, and Blood Moon Rising.

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Author: Rob Bliss