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