Contributor: Lance Manion

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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 between their vagina and anus. Not visible with our eyes or even with any technology that currently exists it was there nonetheless. There in the fifth dimension.

Also in the fifth dimension was a tiny little penis tucked under the ball sack of males. And little armored spikes that run down the male spine.

It was all there in the math.

Give him a cocktail napkin, a pencil and twenty minutes and he could show you.

Assuming, of course, you had a strong background in Bosonic string theory. For those who didn't, they relied on the celebrity scientists to explain it all to them. The public couldn't get enough.

Suddenly the ugly physicist was in play.

He went from speaking engagements to talk shows to putting his fifth dimensional penis to work on some of the hottest females on the planet. It became quite fashionable to have your fifth dimension cherry broken by the man who discovered it in the first place.

If you're trying to imagine what went on during one of these sessions let me congratulate you on your enthusiasm for the topic. Not an easy thing to dive into. Before you reach the conclusion that any pleasure derived from this rather odd intercourse was completely in the mind of the deluded partners let me remind you of a certain quantum principle wherein the act of watching matter can affect the observed reality. Or, in this case, recognizing the matter is there in the first place.

i.e. believe that you have a tainthole/taint-gina/tunt and it shall be so.

In fact, reports began to circulate that sex with these new extra-dimensional organs was even better than with the standard 3-D equipment.

Lost in all of the enthusiasm for the quantum fucking fad was the question of why we had these extra holes and penes. Nobody much cared, there had yet to be a case of a girl getting knocked up and delivering a five dimensional baby, no quantum STDs and clean-up was a breeze.

For a few years the physicist was a rock star. The taint was a rock star. Interest in math and science was off the charts.

So much so that eventually they found other holes and other appendages in higher dimensions, including a male hole and a corresponding female member in the nastiest of all dimensions ... the thirteenth.

By the time the big brains started peaking into dimensions in the twenties the human body was little more than Velcro. It was hard to find a square inch of the body that wouldn't hook onto or into another person if they both believed enough. Old people smiled to themselves and said "That explains a lot."

Interest in typical pornography disappeared. It was looked at the same way we think of hula hoops and Pet Rocks now. In fact, three dimensional sex itself was viewed as passé. Boring. Sticky. Smelly.

A chore endured only for procreation.

Birthrates plummeted.

In the third dimension anyway.

Before you go and feel sorry for all the newly created baby beings residing in higher dimensions just know most of them stayed curled up in both parents and every other person in the universe.

Until someone with a napkin and a pencil decided to take a look anyway ...


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I am the author of four humorous short story collections; Merciful Flush, Results May Vary, The Ball Washer and my latest one Homo sayswhaticus. I blog daily on my website www.lancemanion.com and frequently contribute to many online fiction sites.

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Author: Lance Manion

Contributor: Marc Nocerino

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“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 her until we both exploded. I was so amped it felt like I’d already done a line. I could almost taste the postnasal drip.

“Charming.” She rolled her eyes, glass-blue all covered in thick black lashes and Egyptian mascara; then batted them and licked the corner of her lip. “But you know you love me.”

Greta smiled with just a quarter of her mouth and her eyes glittered like blood diamonds. I wondered, not for the first time, if her insides were as beautiful as her outsides. I doubted it.

“Now stop being a retard and do your line like a good little boy.” She held out a small mirror for me and I leaned in close. I thought of how pale her hand looked against the tattered black fishnet sleeves she wore, of how her skin was the same dull powdery white of the line she had just chopped for me. Her veins showed through the back of her hand, dark spider legs crawling toward me. I closed my eyes, tingling with the anticipation, and thought of Greta being the cocaine as I sucked it up into my nose, not even bothering with a straw.


Greta. Such an ugly name for such a pretty girl.


The drug slammed into my brain. I could feel my frontal lobe dance with sheer euphoria, happy little neurons firing dopamine back and forth like a hundred thousand cocks shooting their loads. I heard Greta inhale her own line and a small moan shuddered through her like orgasm.

This was not cocaine.

I opened my eyes and everything in the small room seemed to glow under its own luminescence. The dark tapestries draped along the walls shone an incandescent velvet black, the dozens of little candle flames were kaleidoscopes spinning and gyrating in the cool dry air. But Greta… she was a marble statue, an alabaster figurine. Her white skin shone like the moon. She was a goddess. I tossed my head back and howled. I was feral.

I tried to ask what is this stuff, but it came out all garbled; more of a long ululation than a sentence. Words weren’t allowed in this headspace.

I could see she was just as enraptured as I was. Her semi-permanent smirk became an actual smile, the first one I’d ever seen on her. Her mouth kept spreading wider and wider. It looked like it was going to split her face in half.

That’s when her eyes rolled back into her head like she was sneaking a peek at her brain. And she mustn’t have liked what she saw there, because blood started pouring out of her nose. It took a minute for me to realize that I should be concerned about it. All I could think about was how pretty those rivulets of dark looked against her paleness, how they accentuated the contour of her lips. She fell backwards, her fall gently broken by one of the gaudy cushions.

When my brain finally did connect the dots, Greta had toppled over and was flopping around like a marionette in the hands of an epileptic puppeteer. Somehow, one of her breasts had shunted its way out of her top in the commotion. Blood started coming out of her mouth, and I thought she might bite her tongue off.

I tried really hard to think of some way to help her but I just couldn’t stop staring at that tit wiggling around.

That is, until I spotted the knife she’d thrown to me earlier. Watching her distorted reflection writhe in the blade, I couldn’t help but wonder again if her insides were as pretty as the rest of her.


It was messy, but it didn't take long to find out. They weren’t. They never are.


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Writer, musician, poet, armchair philosopher, libertine, mystic, and most recently; father. His work has previously been published at Penumbra Magazine, The Original Van Gogh’s Ear, and The Horror 'Zine.

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Author: Marc Nocerino

Contributor: Paul Tristram

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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.


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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, yet.

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: LA Sykes

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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. I should have used lubricant, or even spit or maybe even warned her. Fuck me man, I should have used lubricant’.
‘What happened? She shoot you? Bite your fingers off?’
‘No. She bucked and twisted. I heard a weird as fuck pop, a crick – amplified. Horrible. She was dead. The Old Lady comes home early from work as I’m stuffing the corpse in the broom cupboard – last place she’d look for anything is the place we store cleaning products, right? I try play it cool but she seems freaked. Suspicious. I decide to tell her I’ll do some gardening, to get out the way and give me time to think, but she goes nutso when I go to the shed for the lawn mower. I wonder why, until I get there there’s a dead man staring at me – wearing nothing but a yellow thong. A yellow fucking thong? Christ. We lock eyes for a second. She runs and I follow her with the knife. Anyway little do I know the hooker’s agency send the cops round cos she ain’t checked in. They shoot a taser – it misses and wraps round my fingers and rips them off at the joint. She flies past on a crosser, sees they’ve hurt me and lets me climb on board and we escape. All the way through the fields on that little fucking crosser we promise to renew our vows. Man, surrounded by the beautiful flowers and nothing but the rushing wind, now that was as real romance as there is, I’m telling you. And that’s loyalty. She hates police more than me and to see they’d hurt me stoked that poker into the embers, man, rekindling the fires of love. And here we are. We forgave each other and the agreed the future is about faith, trust and loyalty. Seems we only need a little reminder like this to set us back on our path of matrimony’.
It had to be the truth, there was no other explanation for it. I’d heard some wild arsed stories as to how weird phallic objects end up in the most inconvenient places in my time, but this, well this took the heavyweight title. ‘Well I appreciate the truth, yet I can’t help thinking you could have come up with a more plausible, and less incriminating, explanation. I’ve a duty to report this kind of stuff to the Law’.
‘Oh come off it with that shit. It was a domestic dispute that got out of hand. Anyway, it turned out well in the end for everyone’. He let out a laugh and took out a cigarette from his packet with his stained teeth. His missing digits automatically tried to grip the smoke and he raised his hand to his mouth, smearing his chin in blood as the smoke dropped to the floor.
‘Apart from the dead bodies in the house. Give me one good reason I shouldn’t report you for murder?’
‘Because she’d be done for aiding and abetting – and of course she killed the yellow thong guy, not to mention she’s no license to ride a motorcycle, especially one with no insurance. You can get in deep shit with penalty points for antics like that. She’s your mother for fucks sake, what about loyalty’.
He made a fair point. I pushed my index finger in wound on my thigh and took a long look at the fucker. In the artificial lighting he didn’t look as bad as some of the others I’d met over the years. ‘Well, keep the story to yourself when you go through to the surgical people, they won’t think twice of getting you arrested’.
He laughed again and said, ‘I ain’t here for treatment kid. Your mother told me to tell you goodbye and good luck for the future. She said to get your haircut so people stop saying you’re gay. And not to worry about us. We’re going to live off the land, travel this great country of ours. Well, wish us luck. I’d shake your hand, but with my fingers missing it’d feel insincere.’
I nodded. ‘Why did she kill the guy in the yellow thong?’
He shrugged and said, ‘The Jackhammer move, maybe?’
I wish I’d never asked. He got up to leave, turned and asked, ‘Where do you get yellow thongs? For men I mean, I ain’t pushing it to cross dressing’.
I shook my head and gave him a heavy shrug. It took a lot of effort even for such miniscule gestures given the numbness sweeping through my veins. I got up and watched the fat bastard stride out into the darkness and looked at the chattering faces milling around, preoccupied and tension filled.
Abstract concepts that us humans create. Strange fucking species. My therapist was saying only the other day that the self inflicted violence was a way of reconnecting from being depersonalised – from perceived isolation. It hit me that sometimes a disconnection ain’t always too bad a thing and I promised myself from now on to enjoy it more often.


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LA Sykes grew up in small town Greater Manchester, England. He studied psychology and criminology at University of Central Lancashire before working in psychiatry. His flash fiction is up at and due to appear in the likes of Shotgun Honey, Powder burn Flash and Blink Ink amongst others. He can be contacted at sykesfiction@live.co.uk

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Author: LA Sykes

Contributor: Steve Isaak

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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.


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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 Light.

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Author: Steve Isaak