Contributor: Dusty Wallace

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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 have been lightning, it lingered too long like a fart in an elevator. The windows went dark again after a few seconds but not all had returned to normal. Glowing like a hot coal was the brass knob that opens my front door. I immediately grabbed it with my bare hand. As I suspected, the metal was extremely hot and skin was left behind, sizzling after I pulled away.

Hours of sitting combined with a sudden scare left me with an urgent need to urinate. Just as urgent was my desire to cool the flaming-hot door knob. Any half-wit could see the logical course of action and I’m nothing if not logical. So I used my unburned left hand to unzip and aim the golden stream at its fiery target. After nearly a half-bladder’s worth, the urine still boiled and steamed instantly when it contacted the brass knob. Only after I had been fully relieved was the metal safe to touch.

When I tugged on the door I realized it was already cracked open so I didn’t need to turn the knob after all. Outside was my corn field, illuminated by the full moon. It looked normal except for the enormous pattern of circles dotted throughout. A shiver of fear ran through my bones when I realized I’d have to pick the trampled corn by hand. To relax, I decided to sit back down and rub one out while watching “The Brady Bunch”. Oddly, an hour had went missing during my brief, yet eventful, trip to the front door. The gears in my head started turning. I knew exactly what this meant. “I Love Lucy” would be on.

The rich chocolaty voice of Ricky Ricardo lulled me to sleep. That was on the couch, but I woke up in my bed, paralyzed. My muscles were clenched, head aching. I fought hard to regain movement, but stiffness overwhelmed me as if I had an intravenous Viagra drip. Eventually I tired of the struggle. No, honestly I just got bored and fell back asleep. My dreams turned strangely erotic before being roused by frigid violation.

As the slender green digits slide in and out I couldn’t help but cursing myself for missing all the subtle clues. If only I had seen the hints I could have avoided this fate altogether.

The pencil and notebook I’m recording this with was supplied by my abductors. Their motives for this gift are unclear, but I’ve found it steers my mind from the constant humiliation of defilement. As I write, the two aliens have ended their probing and now stand in the corner of this square room. They must be having some kind of non-verbal conversation, communicating through touch, thrusting and rubbing their pelvises.

When the conversation is over they both light a cigarette. I’m floated back down to my bed in a bright beam of light. The first thing I plan on doing now is pulling my pants up. Next I’m going to grab a beer and head to the den. I’m pretty sure that episode of “The Brady Bunch” I missed is coming on again soon.


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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, yet.

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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 her in my head.

She plucked them out and said, “Can we pull down the bridge-bed?”

Saying that would have come across better as a text with the use of a winky-face immediately after the question mark.

You can’t actually winky-face in real life, or laugh out loud without actually laughing though.

“No, I’m expecting company and won’t be able to maintain an erection. Lololol ;]”

She ducked under the drawbridge and left.

Her brain was still in one piece and she probably still liked me then.

I was waiting for Garcia.

Garcia lived on my floor and was the tour guide friend in every college movie that knew everyone - The vehicle to get the “new kid” protagonist quickly introduced to all the important people so that the dorm/movie “College Experience” doesn’t go over 90 minutes long.

I mean 2 years, and it’s $20K, not 8 dollars.

Garcia also sold amphetamines for $3 a pill.

A few minutes later, he slid a 70mg Vyvanse under the door, taped to a sticky note of my single dorm just like I asked him to.

“$3? Sam?”

With all the lights out, no one can tell that I’m home.

He’ll leave eventually.

I didn’t have three dollars.

I drank some Vitamin Water with the pill and was ~76% sure what I drank was Vitamin Water

I started writing a paper on violence in schools.

I finished it in 3 hours. It had been due 5 hours earlier.

It only needed to be two pages.

I didn’t quite know how to navigate amphetamines back then.


Somewhere on the school violence paper I had mentioned how, “many students, including myself, indulge in homicidal fantasies the same way many young kids play Grand Theft Auto.”and felt very inspirational about that statistic.

The email was sent to Prof ? and away I went from the world and started masturbating with speed dick.

The mind decays when it’s unstimulated. Dicks go soft when they’re unstimulated. Amphetamines send blood away from “unimportant” organs like dicks in order to stimulate the brain.

“More like syllo-jizz’m” was a joke I tried to make in my philosophy classes often.

After the 6th hour of desperately searching for more and more deviant porn to fill the decay, not much else mattered.

For example, noticing the sunrise, or answering the door for Garcia, who had been knocking for the last 10 minutes.

Another knock, and I hear it and finally stop.

I had been watching something that had to do with torturing cocks.

The knocks get harder/cock softer.

I put everything away, closed the laptop lid, and crack open the door to 3 cops.

“What.” I said, with a very obvious period mark.

Certain that I was being talked to about some shady students on my floor smoking marijuana or something worse.

“Are you Sam Bernhofer?”

“YAH.” I said begrudgingly.

“Did you write a paper on how much you’d like to shoot up this university?”

“….” I said.

“Mind if we take a look at your laptop?”

“-___________________________________________________-”

“We need you to retrieve the email you sent to your professor this morning.”

The professor had read my email about an hour ago and realized that I was obviously the next Sandy Hook and sent the suicide cops.


But I mean, fucking look at my dorm.

“You’re going to have to wait until I raise my bed.”

Then I realized how much weird porn was currently open on my computer.

The crazy killer student with bald spots on his head, 3 cops, all underneath a makeshift Drawbridge bed, waiting, eagerly staring at the old laptop as it started up to reveal an .wmv file of someone pulling on another’s pube hair probably.

The cops weren’t going to just let Cho Sueng-Hui disappear under a drawbridge like some kind of armed troll, so all eyes were on me and my computer screen.

There it was.

And there it stayed.

My computer froze whenever it started up.

The woman officer had a look of motherly concern for me.

I looked at her and laughed.

I showed them the email, and kept the porn up.

The cops acted professionally and when I got handcuffed, they told to “watch my head” and the woman officer said that I “had a cool chest tattoo” and that “she has 3 more than anyone on the force.”

“That’s really cool.”

I was put in the backseat of the cruiser but it was too early in the morning for anyone to see.

“We care about all of our students, Sam. Here’s my card, if you ever need to talk feel free to call.”

“What kind of Assault Rifle do you carry in your car?” and then we drove to a hospital where someone watched me for 72 hours.

And I never feel calm when I shave my head, have a happy girlfriend,

or lower my drawbridge bed.


- - -
I'm Sam Bernhofer, 23, counselor of the developmentally disabled, obsessive hair-puller, midwesterner.

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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 her apartment one hour away.
When Dieter came, he hardly released anything out.
It stung.
That night he went over hers, Stephanie moved Dieter’s fingers to the cuts on her legs that she gave herself.
“Did I put those there?” Dieter asked, arrogantly,
and not sure
if genuinely.
Stephanie fell asleep.
Dieter stayed up all night and kept everyone’s fluids in their bodies.
“How many times do I have to tell you I need you in my life before you believe me? Need I record it to a cassette tape so you can rewind it and play it for yourself until it’s true to you?” she said to him later that summer.
“I’m pretty easy to keep around.”
Caveman.
He wiped off onto Andrea’s bedsheets – their bedsheets.
It was the end of winter.
Dieter was attempting to occupy his mind with Andrea.
Dieter is Andrea’s Stephanie.
Dieter was Andrea’s first.
Andrea and Dieter have sex once every week for 25 minutes including foreplay.
The very first time Dieter and Andrea hung out, it was early March and she said, “I can’t remember the last time I shaved my legs!”
Andrea always talked in friendly exclamation points.
Making out with morning breath for 1 minute.
“Let me shave them for you.”
Andrea gave an innocent head nod which was her entire being, and went to the bathroom to get shaving equipment.
“I’m out of shaving cream. Use this lotion!” she said.
“I forgot you could use that.”
Fingers shoved in and out of her dry vagina for 1 minute.
“Go ahead” she said in a very un-Stephanie way.
“I hope I don’t make you bleed” Dieter said.
Rubbing her legs, he felt that he should have been more aroused.
He started to stroke delicately against the grain.
Long stalks of hair got caught in the blade.
Painful dick tugging for 15 seconds.
A few more strokes, the razor broke.
“I have another, hold on.”
Insertion.
Missionary for about 10 minutes.
All on the floor of her bedroom with a towel under them.
He wiped lotion on his hand and went to work with his new razor.
Hair was flying everywhere.
Both of their minds started to wander.
Dieter stabbed her with the razor and felt it all start to come out.
Everyone’s losing interest.
“It’s ok, keep going.”
Dieter’s razor went completely through her flesh.
Legs over shoulders for 3 minutes.
Andrea’s blood was flowing all over the floor.
Dieter was amazed.
Andrea grinned and said, “It’s ok, this usually happens.”
“I know, sorry.”
She grabbed the exploded razor and started stabbing her legs all over to make Dieter feel better.
Dieter laughed whole-heartedly.
“Am I doing a good job?” He asked Andrea.
Missionary for around 9 minutes.
“You’re doing a good job, I’m just better at doing this myself.”
“I figured as much.” He said.
“Don’t feel bad, It’s not like I could shave your beard the way you’d like!” Andrea said.
“Yeah, that’s definitely true. I don’t like shaving anyway, though.”
“Good, I like your scruff!” she said, and started mopping up her blood.
Dieter ripped his beard off.
Failing at emotional favors.
Happier than can be.
Everyone finishes each other off, eventually.


- - -
I'm Sam Bernhofer, 23, counselor of the developmentally disabled, obsessive hair-puller, midwesterner.

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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 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: 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, and she eyed the studded-leather bridles and eyeless masks with distaste. She turned to the wall behind her, where the old man still hovered by the door. Shelves on either side of him presented neon-colored vibrators and dildos, one as large around as her biceps. She grimaced.

Sicko, she thought. This guy is some freak. . .

She turned away from him and rapped on the table, but the hard wood absorbed the thuds. She had no doubt the whole basement was soundproof. A rope coiled on the table’s surface like a bored asp, a ball-gag rested next to it, and an ankle bar stretched across the foot of the wooden surface. A heavy chain linked the ankle bar with the ceiling, and she looked up. Give me a break. The full-length mirror was beyond tacky! But the pulley that dripped chains could be useful…

"Well? Do you like it?"

She turned to him. "Standard rates apply."

His beady eyes darted as he protested, "You’ll find no better! This is the best S&M dungeon in–"

"Look–" she made a show of checking her wrist. "–I have to be at my next appointment in an hour. Take it or leave it."

He licked his lips, considered her a moment. "Okay. But I get to watch."

She shrugged. "Whatever. My crew will be here first thing in the morning to get rid of all this crap and make the set ready…"


- - -
Born in Baghdad, raised in Brooklyn, living in Texas, Bint Arab is perpetually out of place and comfortable with that. She is an emerging writer, and she administers the writers' forum at www.bibliophilia.org/forum/index.php

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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 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: 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