Contributor: Paul Tristram - - I was walking down by a stream today (Look it doesn’t fucking matter which stream it was, it was just a stream, alright!) When I decided to take myself a well earned rest upon a vacant wooden bench (Look it doesn’t fucking matter which side of the stream the vacant wooden bench was on, it was just a vacant wooden bench, alright!) So I sat there for awhile, just carelessly wishing that I had a hammer and a few dozen nails with me because I’ve given up smoking for eight days and every time that I stop still for more than a second my hands become possessed by something, I am serious they start break dancing and signalling to nothing and nobody, they start chopping invisible paper right there before my eyes, not in an exact straight line, in more of a slope? So the hammer and nails were for me to nail my bastard...

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Eric Hawthorn - - Nowhere in the world is our beloved art form more prevalent, or more vibrant, than in the great nation of Japan. Westerners take note: the Japanese are true innovators. Their particular advantage lies in the widespread use of animation, a medium whose exemption from the laws of reality remains less explored in the West. In “hentai”—that distinctly Japanese form of animation—we have the extreme close-up, the x-ray shot, forays into anthropomorphism and magical realism. And then there’s the archetypal Hentai Girl: neon hair, saucer eyes, dancing irises reflecting a minimum of three major light sources at any time. The Hentai Girl always possesses a near-metallic radiance (a shininess unmatched by the male characters, light reflection being a gender thing). Continuing this noble Japanese tradition, Pussycat...

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Author: Eric Hawthorn

Contributor: Paul Tristram - - I shall wait outside your home I will follow you in the street. If you let me have five minutes I’d tear off both of your feet. I’d run right home delighted and put them in a glass case. I’d invite around my friends but hire security just in case. Anybody gets any funny ideas and tries to steal my treasure. My beloved’s severed body parts would simply be my only pleasure. I have followed you for years waited for hours outside hotels. I gave my true love from afar my normal life I had to sell. But if I had your genius toes to kiss and hold to each night. I would cover up your shrine and masturbate with you held tight. - - - Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging...

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: J. E. Sifton - - I spent the night before last with her. We started at the cinema, then grabbed a drink, then another. Sitting close at the bar, my hand already in-between her legs, warm to my touch. Cabbing back to her place, convincing her to model for me was easier than I expected, kissing my neck as we stumbled in. I chose her outfit: shapely black leggings (who doesn't have a fetish for Lulu?) and a tight white 'beater. Positioning her on the bed, I began shooting with my appareil photo, slowly peeling away the layers. Beginning with her upturned ass, capturing the tattoo on her lower back atop the tiny grey thong. Her ass begs to be bit and licked and slapped hard. Her slender stomach is revealed as I slowly rolled up her white top. Hip bones are pronounced, forming a valley between two arched hills accentuating...

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Author: J. E. Sifton

Contributor: Paul Tristram - - I was up! I was tripping?!?! I had finally done it. Two hundred magic mushrooms. It was not funny like people had said even though I was laughing. There were no giant rats. I was not being chased by pink elephants. Huge Pac-men were not eating my feet. And there was absolutely no sign of nuns with piranha faces. It was just me laughing and crying all at the same time. I was with five other people but I felt totally alone. Just me and my ruptured personality. There was wave after wave of emotional fear. A dangerous intoxicating excitement. I was scared shitless but I was enjoying it. I started chewing the inside of my mouth, I bit too hard, it bled, it felt good. I took a drink from my cider bottle. I didn’t need the cider. I didn’t need fuck all! I was finally tripping. I had found a hidden question-less...

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Dusty Wallace - - It didn’t surprise me that the two little green men probed me, but I expected it to be with some sort of scientific tool. The long slimy green fingers did teach me one thing though, they’re cold-blooded. Very cold. My asshole was so frosty I barely noticed the smooth sounds of Lionel Richie. I’m not sure where it was coming from, didn’t see any speakers. No matter, even the velvety tones of “Say You, Say Me” couldn’t have warmed such a coldness. Earlier that night, 7pm to be exact (Leave it to Beaver had just ended), there was a knock at the door. I rose from my couch for the first time in hours with a yawn and a stretch. Both legs were tingly from a day of marathon masturbation so I shook them out one at a time and started for the door. Before I made it halfway there was a huge flash. I knew it couldn’t...

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Author: Dusty Wallace

Contributor: Paul Tristram - - With head between her legs I looked up the barrel of love. Urged on by tender whispers I gave my tongue a shove. A button, soft and unsocial to anyone’s pleasure but she. Yet, I worked on regardless between those rigid knees. Pubic hair burns the tongue she always takes her time. But hey, I am crotch happy next she is down on mine. - - - Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, y...

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Sam Bernhofer - - The police would later say that my dorm had the most interesting arrangement of furniture they’ve ever seen. The bed was held up 5 feet high purely from being wedged between the walls perpendicularly. It was a fucking drawbridge that took me 3 hours of scraping and complaints from the dorms next door to make that way, and I hated it. Underneath drawbridge was a desk, laptop, schoolwork covered in piss, Vitamin Water bottles full of piss, several cum rags, a shotgun I had purchased when I turned 18 in a guitar case, and some hair I had twisted and pulled out of my head. I had a girl come over occasionally, you know. Her lungs were dirty brown underneath rotten yellow teeth and a smelly white tongue. All she gave a shit about was the fucking drawbridge bed. I raised a few hairs with my hand to let...

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Author: Sam Bernhofer

Contributor: Sam Bernhofer - - Dieter fucked his hand while his girlfriend Andrea was in class. Three years ago, Dieter and Stephanie broke up. Two weeks after that, Dieter was in a relationship with Andrea. “It’s not official until you change your relationship status on Facebook.” Andrea told Dieter. He used shaving cream. He rushed. He thought of nothing really. Maybe it was the memory of Stephanie, five months earlier, changing in front of him so confidently only minutes after seeing him for the first time in two years that got it done. Six months earlier while Dieter was still with Andrea, he had sent Stephanie an anagrammed poem about her and she said “Keep telling me.” Stephanie was the catalyst Dieter needed to leave Andrea, “For good this time.” “When are you coming to see me…” she said. He went. He ruined Andrea. He drove to...

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Author: Sam Bernhofer

Contributor: Paul Tristram - - Pretty paper parcels All wrapped up tight. Containing powder wings To set my mind in flight. Releasing all the stress I’m not invisible tonight. Take a lick, take a dip There’s plenty, it’s alright. Sleep is for the straight Tonight I’m on a different ride. Sorted by an hippy In the pub outside. Rushes come like waves Sensational mental tides. Speech racing like a roller coaster Consciousness ninety miles wide. I’m surfin’ mirrors Once again, here I go. I’m surfin’ mirrors Smiling, shovelling snow. I’m surfin’ mirrors Got that white line fever. I’m surfin’ mirrors With a razorblade thin cleaver. Rolling up banknotes White luminous dust. Line ‘em up, line ‘em up Fuel this junkie lust. - - - Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around...

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Bint Arab - - He took her to the basement and stood aside at the entrance, wringing his hands. She walked into a cavernous space surrounded by open-faced brick walls but with no interior dividers. Although the air was dry, the place smelled like a barbecue grill and unwashed laundry; the combination of the two killed her appetite. She walked up to the bed-sized table in the center which caught her eye first, but the X-shaped wooden cross he’d erected just beyond it grabbed her attention. Wrist and ankle bindings dotted each arm of the cross. Candles about 3 feet long leaned in a corner next to a brazier filled with grey coals and a set of tongs. The adjoining wall to her right displayed every torture instrument imaginable: whips, meat hooks, paddles, and…a peacock feather? Restraints of all kinds hung on the left wall,...

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Author: Bint Arab

Contributor: Paul Tristram - - It used to be thought very immoral, years ago it was considered a sin. But when the conversation begins people now merely answer with a grin. Masturbation is such a nice thing perfect for the release of stress. Remembering someone you saw earlier and mentally taking off her dress. There’s now no need for a partner to shoot yourself onto the floor. Imagination is a changing place where everyone becomes a whore. Knuckle-shuffles and bean-flicking are a craze throughout the nation. Just peace, quiet and a tissue box for some sensual, solitary gyration. Don’t worry you will not go blind for it is healthy and not a crime. I am just so glad that I am a poet it takes but one hand to write a line. - - - Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications...

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Em Ramser - - He pats her head like she’s a well trained golden Labrador. She licks her lips, pretending her saliva is turpentine and bleach. She picks the crumbs of dirt from her knees. It’s her OCD, her need to clean. She got it from the stepmother who forced her on her knees to clean doorways and baseboards. He slides his thumb across her bottom lip. She forces a smile and a swallow, all the time tracing lines of graffiti on the wall behind him. She used to paint like that with spray cans, once even brushes. He buckles his belt, tucks his button up into his jeans and asks her if she wants to go to Hardee’s for lunch. He says he’ll buy her a turkey burger. - - - Emily Ramser lives in Winston-Salem, NC, though you're more likely to find her online at chickadeesweetie.wordpress.com....

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Author: Em Ramser

Contributor: Paul Tristram - - It was our third day together as boyfriend and girlfriend and we had decided to try and do it sober. We were very quiet that morning, quite shy and awkward with each other yet very smiley all the same. She cooked us up a lovely breakfast of scrambled eggs with mushrooms, bell peppers, fried potatoes and bacon, with some real coffee, man I absolutely love her cooking, she sure knows her pots and pans. After we had broke our fast, we had decided that since it was a beautiful day and I needed to get some more Kio food that we would take a walk up to the garden centre a couple of miles north of the town and enjoy the weather and our sober gentle day together. Before setting off on our trek we went to the corner Spar shop to replenish my cigarette paper supply and whilst in the afore mentioned shop we happened...

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Lance Manion - - His views on the fairer sex made him a bit of a dinosaur. Well, that and the armored plates that ran down his back. Luckily for him they weren't visible. He was strictly in the 'survival of the fittest camp', but this typically didn't present many problems as the girls he typically ran into were firmly ensconced in the 'take anyone with a heartbeat and a decent job' camp. That was about to change due to his job. He was the ugly physicist who became the sexual swan. He was the guy who, while playing around with uncurling the dimensions curled up inside each other, found the hole that wasn't there. Or wasn't there until he proved it was. Although the paper he presented was a little short on sizzle it didn't take long for the implications of the discovery to take root. Females had another tiny hole...

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Author: Lance Manion

Contributor: Marc Nocerino - - “Goddamnit Greta,I growled at the dark beauty sitting in front of me, "stick that fucking knife in my gut or so help me God I will chew your eyes out." For a second I might have actually meant it. “You’re sooooo melodramatic, Rick. If it weren’t so cute, it would almost be pathetic.” Rather than gut me, Greta used the supremely sharp knife to finish chopping the cocaine into two tidy little lines; perfectly parallel, perfectly spaced, and of identical length. She tossed the knife in my general direction; playfully, not at me. It landed softly on one of the dozens of faux-Moroccan throw pillows that littered the floor. “You’re such an evil bitch.” My hands were clammy. She drove me crazy and she knew it. She had been leading me on for months now. I wanted nothing more than to snort that rail and fuck...

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Author: Marc Nocerino

Contributor: Paul Tristram - - We fought out in the car park we wrestled down onto the ground. I grabbed him by the throat with my head I began to pound. His nose rose up like a balloon blood and snot circled his head. He kneed me in the bollocks my face was green, his was red. We struggled on for ten minutes until both our strength was gone. We were both barred from the pub it didn’t matter who was wrong. I left him wiping at his face came home to drink more beer. I then awoke this sore morning covered in my septic souvenirs. - - - Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, y...

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: LA Sykes - - I’d slashed my leg with my blade and patched it up nicely in the staff toilets. I went back to my station in A and E and it was two o’clock in the morning on a Saturday night and I sat wondering about a lot of abstract concepts us humans wrestle with. Love, hate, economic enslavement. Life, death, the finite period in between. A man comes in my triage cubicle with half his fingers missing. I say, ‘What the fuck happened to you, sunshine?’ He laughs and whistles and pulls a miniature Bells whiskey from his shirt pocket and he shrugs and says, ‘Well if you really want to know, I’ll tell you. I hired a whore. Got to fucking, sixty nine et al and I really fancied the jackhammer, you know, where she’s got her legs over your shoulders and her head’s on the floor and it’s the prime position to slip in the arsehole....

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Author: LA Sykes

Contributor: Steve Isaak - - I am their whore. Her rapist tip parts sable, carnelian shimmer for her expatiating kiss! Venusian salt on our china thighs, he glitters, a terrified voyeur bound by a gold band. I am their toy. Pigeons coo over cunt drenched bread bits, old men with their fondled plastic kings – ben-was rolls slick, swollen, my tottering walk; the wed ones watch, stain Apollo’s public hour. I am their panacea. She shivers under razors, my mercenary traces, roses without petals – he violates her Dachau pucker, her exotic spine bent by his divorcing gaze. - - - Steve Isaak, sometimes published under the nom de plume Nikki Isaak and Chuck Lovepoe, is the author of several poetry anthologies. He is the editor of Reading & Writing By Pub Lig...

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Author: Steve Isaak

Contributor: Paul Tristram - - Again fill my glass with some vodka while I snort another line of cocaine. Then a few tokes of a skunk spliff while the powder’s wracked up again. Another can of Stella would be nice and maybe I’ll do an ecstasy or two. A little dab of cheeky amphetamine will help me see the night through. You can stick your smack up your arse but of course wash up some crack. I’ll go and seek out the ammonia I will be the last one on my back. - - - Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, y...

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Paul Tristram - - If you wash it, I’ll do it I’ll crawl back down the bed. Get tangled up in your legs and hope I don’t see red. Yeah, I’ll face it like a man and I’ll do my very best. Work away quite hungrily you have yourself a rest. Ram-raid with my tongue, I’ll take it on the chin. If you was it, I’ll do it let the messy show begin. - - - Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, y...

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Zelda Zonk - - Doug's going deeper and faster than he has before. He hears Aiden's belaboured moans underneath him and pauses for a second so his breath can even out a bit. Doug steadies his hand on Aiden's left butt check. Only after Aiden smiles back at him does he slap it hard. "Don't stop," Aiden pants. Doug places both hands on Aiden's waist, gripping him hard as he continues to plunge in and out of him. When he slides out accidentally, Aiden lets out a small yelp. Doug shushes him, and then slaps his ass again. "Turn over," Doug commands. Aiden groans as he moves, and then smiles when Doug meets his eye. "This is what I like," Doug says. Aiden touches himself on the bed, craning his neck, his Adam's apple large and exposed, covered with hickeys, and he grabs the pillow. He puts it under his back and then Doug...

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Author: Zelda Zonk

Contributor: Stacy Maddox - - I can smell her hot sex Intoxicating, tangy and sweet Another man's spent seed Staining her clean panties Every day for weeks now We've been meeting this way She pretends I am nobody And slips into the next seat I could be her favorite lover Instead of the cock she's using Sitting there so innocently As I shift against my jeans She's just had another fucking One of many I will count Leaving me breathless and needy When her skin is slick and flushed Day after day I anticipate We would be good together Her poised, straddling my hips Ready to take all she wants Over coffee and a bagel I have stripped her naked Satisfied our deepest desires And cum in her soft folds. - - - Stacy Maddox lives, dreams and writes in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS. She loves to soak up the sun by the river and feel...

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Author: Stacy Maddox

Contributor: Paul Tristram - - I was sitting in the corner of the room, biting at my left wrist, when Lynn my common-law wife came running over to me. “Baby, the ambulance has just pulled up outside, try and stand up love, come on I’ll help you!” I put my hands under myself and tried to push myself up; I rose about a foot from the floor then crashed back down again. “Here give me one of your arms, there that’s it, now try again.” She pulled while I clenched my arse cheeks together, pushed forward and tried to make myself light, I abseiled half way across the floor before I was finally standing upright. I stood there swaying perfectly for a second or two, leaned forward with a grin to kiss her on her forehead, I missed, skidded down her left hand side and collapsed once more upon the floor. “For Fuck Sake!” She exclaimed in frustration. Then...

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Paul Tristram - - He is notorious in the red-light area. The girls cringe when they hear his tapping cane approaching. Some of them circle the new girl and whisper urgent warnings to her. “Caitlin committed suicide after her first ever time with him!” “Look at my scar it always itches whenever he’s near!” “Drinking menstruation blood from a toilet!” “Jars and jars of specimens upon shelves up in his rooms!” “A whole packet of Marlboros!” “He pays treble but that’s no price for a burn mark like that!” “They say Jackie will never come out of the nuthouse!” “And they had to put the raven down!” “Here he is, don’t look him in the eyes or the Hell’s Gate of a mouth in that stinking, ginger beard of his or he will stop and call you, his Dear!” - - - Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and...

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Paul Tristram - - The first time I saw it it was graffitied on a bridge and my cock instantly spasmed into life. I had to pull over at the next rest stop and skull-fuck my girlfriend so hard that I’m pretty sure that I actually went insane for a second or two as I shot my muck down her throat. Of course I had no idea that the slogan was actually about the jailed members of a Russian Girl Punk Band. I just saw those 3 words painted on a bridge and it was like crushing up and snorting a whole tub of Viagra (I would imagine?) My girlfriend has even made a special set of underwear with it printed on for when I’m not in the mood, she’s clever like that. - - - Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who now lives on the Southern coast of Britain, has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world....

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Paul Tristram - - I cut his face in one Welsh stripe, Watched his mother cry "NO!" behind him, I staggered backwards and dealt with the brothers. The big bastard first I pushed his mother into the gutter, Kissed his sister and walked into the road Like the arrogant cunt I am! - - - Paul Tristram: I’m a Welsh writer, who now lives by the coast in Cornwall. I have around 800 poems published and a handful of short stories and sketches in 13 different countries. I used to run the poetry magazine “In Between Hangovers”. I have recently quit drinking until I manage to pull my sanity back out of the well, its halfway back. I sometimes dress like a mannequin and turning your back and running away is foreplay where I come fr...

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Roger Leatherwood - - I knew exactly what came over me. It was the boiling warmth in my balls, the orgasm growing that would explode into my drunken wife within seconds. My mind was not my own, my erection an animal apart from my body and yet connected, raging and hard and grown deep and rooted within my soul, my ardor and pulling my stomach as I rammed slowly into the slippery snatch of my wife, who lay on the neighbor's bedclothes. Jason had come in, maybe looking for a bathroom or to get away from the band in the den, and stood watching. I saw him and did not stop. I kept going at my wife, she was my wife after all, pants around my ankles. That Nicki was so drunk that her eyes were rolling into her head even as she spread her legs as wide as she could on the tangled sheets to let me in - that her hand was reaching...

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Author: Roger Leatherwood

Contributor: Paul Tristram - - Down at Scumland, population cunts is where I now happen to reside. Down at Scumland, population cunts is where I now do drunkenly hide. At home with the whores and junkies and at one with the common thief. I saturate my senses continually I take all kinds of quick relief. The rain and sun don’t bother us they’re just backdrops to the shite. The shite we’re all living through which the weather can’t put right. I take it easy and I take it all I’m accustomed to my surroundings. Down at Scumland, population cunts we’re all individual and astounding. - - - Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, y...

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Paul Tristram - - The erotic mind on drugs is a wonderful place to be. The erotic mind on drugs yes, it always seduces me. It makes my soul go quivery, it sets my nerves ablaze. Every small touch and caress sends my emotions into a daze. The erotic mind on drugs effects more than the head. The erotic mind on drugs sends me jumping for the bed. - - - Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, y...

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Paul Tristram - - He sat there, thinking of her again wiping someone else's blood away, cornered in cell number 2. In they came, team handed 8 of the fuckers, with broom handles "You dirty bastard, fucking scum!" He headbutted the first one then frowned loudly to himself, after 3 broken jaws they evaporated into silken mists before his eyes. And he left the cell backwards unable to help the other man sat in the corner Chewing his left fist off with fear. - - - Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, y...

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: E Young - - Jason has watched enough anime to know where this is going. He was staying with his e-friend Susumu—alias CharClone008—in Chicago for a bit so that he could attend a con. Even though Susumu constantly scolded him for having no job and no money, somehow he'd still managed to drive all the way from Virginia to spend tens of dollars along with all the other sweaty fanboys. He tried to get Susumu to go with him, but he passed. He even tried to pay him a little rent money since he'd be there for a few days, but all Susumu wanted in return was a cute little souvenir. Susumu worked nights at a bar downtown and slept most of the day, leaving Jason alone to eat chips and watch old mecha tapes and DVDs. It was a pretty good life, mostly what he did at home anyway except Susumu didn't leave the A/C on twenty-four/seven...

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Author: E Young