Contributor: Kyle Yadlosky - - “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...

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

1 comment

Author: Kyle Yadlosky

Contributor: George Sparling - - I’m Ted Black and that voice, a surveillance technique, as if thrown by a ventriloquist’s between my apartment’s walls, down my toilet, into my food, shoes, sheets, between my toes, between my teeth while I floss, beneath my feet as I walk, under my flesh, down my throat, into my spleen and prefrontal cortex; as yet I can’t shake it loose, that metallic, asexual digitalized voice as I saunter crosswalks, and traffic, it reverberates off bumpers, infinitely repeating that three-word phrase, “Ted Black’s Shit”; this isn’t a common auditory hallucination, today I get off my butt and refuse to rot anymore, listening to the voice’s taunt. I’ll hunt it down and send it to hell so it’ll never say, “Ted Black’s Shit” except to the devil below. It’s real, I should know: I read Wired magazine, DARPA...

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: George Sparling

Contributor: George Sparling - - I used to get persistent thoughts of going to prison without Deadazine, the guards not handing out my usual nighttime dose. Denial of D, especially by strangers wearing uniforms and packing Tasers, wasn’t like withdrawing from it gradually under a psychiatrist’s script-wring hands. “Getting a dozen 50,000 volts, wires sticking into my heart, I hovered over my corpse witnessing a wasted life. My only success: death,” I said, wearing boxer shorts and a sleeveless undershirt, looking at the kitchen floor. “Steve, you’ll never go to prison. Take the med,” Nan said, handing me the huge tablet which I downed with Ginseng tea, a culture clash I never resolved. Nan used to snort Kleenex-soaked crank. Now she never had to blow her nose, just let the booger-clogged nostrils absorb her snot. “It’s leaking out...

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: George Sparling

Contributor: George Sparling - - My homeless self lay clothed on my back on Father Butler Quincy’s bed in the university’s Newman Center. We met in the center’s parking lot after I had slept behind nearby bushes. Bernadette, an ex-nun, Butler’s sister, undressed me and told me to watch her disrobe her nun’s habit, a striptease, Jesus’ large brown cross on the wall behind her. The phone rang downstairs. “Butler slit his wrists, took lots of barbiturates and was found dead in a hotel bathtub in Chartres,” she said. “Did you see the piece in the local paper about the district attorney charging him with five counts of child molestation?” She spoke distanced as a newscaster on TV. She mounted me, my dick hard as the wood of Q’s cross, and she bounced high and deep over my tool, and yelled, “Die, priest, die,” as she had orgasms....

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: George Sparling