Contributor: Richard Osgood

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Ivan Chemalski stands at the center of a blow-up kiddie pool, naked, feet spread, penis erect, defecating in the water. A metallic rendition of The Entertainer cycles over and over from the loudspeaker of an ice cream truck as it approaches, passes, and fades under napping pine trees and languid American flags. Coitus, he calls her, the young Slovakian woman with burlap hair and volcanic skin, who sits in a folding beach chair, fully gowned, feet over the inflated edge of the pool, washing dirt from soil-burdened toes. A glance at the paperback within arm’s-length grasp of fruitful clover, her fingertips callused by fractured asphalt, she anticipates locked doors and drawn shades. Sunrise weighed down by iron skillets and uncharitable destinations serves blood sausage and beets to former transmission assembly workers in dungaree overalls and infertile white t-shirts, and thick-skin widows with dehydrated eyes eat cabbage and ground veal in submissive surrender to the orbital trajectory of dominant genus. Stained water links the two, she and Ivan, in impossible neutrality, a headless allegory of love and a parody of copulation. He masturbates, ejaculates, an orgasm at the endpoint of humanity, at the farthest reaches of pathology—"I am the origin of things," he says. She claps her hands and splashes her feet and sings epic sonnets of mountains and oceans and virtues and sin.


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Richard Osgood lives in a city on a river where the north meets the south. Publication credits include Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Hobart, Dogzplot, Night Train, Mudluscious, among others. He continues to mourn the deaths of Steve Marriott and Syd Barrett.

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Author: Richard Osgood

Contributor: LA Sykes

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Eye eye. Who is this dodgy looking cunt? Suspicious behaviour indeed. Creeping around the alley at this time of night? What the fuck is he wearing? Who does he think he is? Which house is he planning to hit? Time to find out.

Out the back door and jump the fence. Creep up on this thieving fucker from behind and boot him up the arse as he bends over mauling about with the canvas cover sheet on his getaway vehicle. Rip off his silly hat and grab his hair snapping his head back. Crush his bulbous nose with a quick crack. Look him square in his pleading eyes taking in the white beard slowly turning crimson with blood.

"Don't tell me, you're Santa Claus delivering presents for all the boys and girls?" I ask sarcastically.

"Yes, look please I really am S...."

I cut off his driveling bullshit with another backhand slap. Never could stand thieves.

"Shut up scumbag".

Claims he has a heart condition and needs the pills from the glove compartment of his sleigh. Santa with a bad ticker? Too many mince pies and sherry? Nice try.

“No pills for you thief. Picked the wrong street to burglarize this Christmas!”

Degenerate fool keels over playing dead. Very still. Good acting my son.

The vehicle moves beneath its cover so I rip it off and step back in stunned shock. Nine docile reindeer all stare at me with accusing glares. Harnessed to a quaint wooden sledge.

On the seat is a dirty cotton sack that appears empty. With shaking hands I untie the twine and open it. Stardust sprays the air and a kaleidoscope of colour bursts all around me bathing my senses, illuminating the pitch dark and my soul.

Tie it back up and head to the man in red with a thousand apologies on the tip of my tongue. Won’t rouse, no pulse. Shit.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Only one option.

Drag the stiffening corpse into the garden. Quickly strip it and cover the pale flesh with firewood and leaves. Have to bury it in the woods before sunrise.

The suit is miles too big and the crotch smells. Dirty bastard. Least the braces keep the pants up.

Clamber into the driver’s seat and grip the reins. Quick tug gets no response. How the fuck do you drive a sleigh?

‘’Mush you stupid cunts!’’

Realise mush is for huskies and go beet red. Glad nobody was around to witness that.

Whip hard but still these dopy bastards don’t go.

No time to spare. Lean over and kick the nearest one in the arsehole. That did the trick and away we go.

Gonna be a long night.


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LA Sykes is a psychotherapist and published sports writer from Manchester England. Bringing a new voice of musings and satire from the inside.

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Author: LA Sykes

Contributor: LA Sykes

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The day of the big opening. Display stalls quickly being filled by organisations wanting to be seen the most. Networking and getting their services out there. Being early my work was already done so I spied the chance to grab a smoke before the tape cutting started.

Exiting through the fire escape the summer sun bathed my face in warmth. Cool breeze lightly flickered the flame from the match as I inhaled deeply. It was then I saw her. Sweet strawberry blonde hair bobbed as she walked. My eyes took in her body. Fair skinned shoulders lowered to full curved hips and buttocks covered only lightly by a yellow summer dress. Knee length. No panty line. My blood rushed down and I felt myself swell pushing against denim.

She caught my presence in her peripheral vision. Turned and met my gaze. I caught her eyes and gave a small smile that she returned. Let her follow my sight to her pert rear swaying as she walked. She flushed and continued to her car with a confident stride. I couldn’t watch her go. Ground out the smoke with my heel and returned to the big hall.

Official announcements now over. I roam the place selling raffle tickets to disinterested staff. Wearily approach the local college stall and recite my lines as I stroll. A coin hits the table with a dink thrown by a pale hand. I follow it as my pulse quickens once again rousing me. Her.

Shows pearl white teeth as sweet lips part in that same smile. Sat behind the desk she eyes the swelling bulge in my jeans at eye level forcing me to follow her vision. I notice her nipples harden beneath her flimsy cotton and spy the flush return. Tear off the strip. Write my number instead of the office line. My fingers linger as I place the paper in her palm. Catch the dull gold on ring finger and feel my heart fade.

Move on completing the rounds. No interest. Ready to call it a day and go.

Phone vibrates in my pocket jolting me out of stupor. Unknown number with the two word scroll of fire escape.

Look around dizzily seeing nothing in the buzz of human traffic. Head to the doors finding her midway down the stairs leaning against the rail.
Descend to meet her on the step. Ether between us fires together pulsing electric. Feel her breath and cool lips and hot wet tongue on my neck sucking and licking as her arms pull me close. Lean in without resistance as my fingers run up her smooth thighs under the dress and grip her cheeks roughly spreading them. She moans quietly and brushes my bulging cock quickly fumbling with my belt and buttons. Pulls out my throbbing erection and grips the veined shaft. Wedding ring nipped at the skin as her hand massaged hard. I exhale with raw pleasure as she drops to her knees engulfing head first then deeper as I run my fingers through her fine strawberry blonde hair. She stands abruptly bending over and hitching the hem of her dress backing onto my erect prick and groaning as she grinds slowly down the length. Pull out and crouch licking her sweet wet pussy from behind flicking her hard clit and working up entering her moist pussy with my tongue deeply. Mouth moistens with her excitement as I taste with rabid hunger salivating wildly. The burning fire of lust fires me upright as I stretch her entering with my hands gripping her hips. Fuck hard with each thrust harder than the one before as we climax together.

Her tight lips milk every hot drop as I empty hard. Her juices drench my tight balls as we catch shallow breaths as one.
We dress and she faces me with shifting expressions I struggle to identify.

Want. Hunger. Regret.

Our fingers painfully ease apart as her eyes whisper something close to if only.

Breaks gaze with salt tears that drive shards of loss into my veins.

Then she was gone as swift as she appeared leaving me only her scent I still recall as clear as a December night sky.

Never saw her again.

Never even heard her voice.


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LA Sykes is a psychotherapist and published sports writer from Manchester England. Bringing a new voice in musings and satire from the inside.

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Author: LA Sykes

Contributor: LA Sykes

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‘’You will most certainly NOT be leaving the hospital!’’ Doctor Bubba stated hysterically. Talking to his patients was very stressful, triggering his self-diagnosed situation-specific social anxiety disorder that he’d diagnosed himself with after long periods of self-assessment. He was very convincing in his diagnoses, especially regarding himself, and was suddenly pleased with his expertise on the matter which reduced his anxieties in this social interaction. Relaxing, he leaned back cooly and caressed the sleeve of his suit jacket with the leather elbow patches that he wore continually in the belief they exuded intellectualism, which triggered severe bouts of self-consciousness, triggering an acute bout of self-consciousness.

‘’Why not! I’ve been compliant with this ridiculous charade to assuage my Community Psychiatric Nurses’ fears! If she hadn’t gone off sick with panic attacks she would have vouched for me to the N’th degree!’’, pleaded Stuart-the dog-shit-obsessionist convincingly. Then he realised his C.P.N. may have had a panic attack witnessing this and was caught between a rock and a hard place. Doctor Bubba may have attributed her panic attack to his plea for discharge which would have triggered a stress response in the doctor, ergo ruling out this as an option. He silently thanked his lucky stars for his C.P.N’s nervous disposition, simultaneously cursing her for her nervous disposition in not being able to vouch for him.

Doctor Bubba felt a nervous trickle of cold sweat break out on his lower back as he tried to remember what assuage meant. For a brief instant he worried profusely that he was in the early stages of Alzheimers disease and his short term memory was beginning to fail him, but this fear was quickly forgotten much to his immediate relief. He stated emphatically ‘’But you’re showing all the symptoms of someone suffering from severe paranoia, even persecution and removal of freedom of choice, more-so that somehow you are being controlled by an external influence. Because of this I will not sanction your discharge. In fact I will recommend you will go back on ten minute observations! It is necessary for someone to watch you every ten minutes to assess whether or not you are paranoid about people watching you. That’s my decision!’’, stated Doctor Bubba with an air of relief and subsequent self-conscious paranoia about the leather elbow patches being visible while gesticulating. ‘’And stop staring at my elbow patches will you! That is a covert attempt at ridicule!’’ Dr Bubba added firmly with no conviction.

Stuart-the-dog-shit-obsessionist was momentarily captivated by the leather elbow patches which he had never noticed before and as hard as he tried could not stop his face from revealing overt ridicule.

‘’Now that is overt ridicule!’’ Dr Bubba expelled with instantaneous detection. ‘’You are much worse than I thought! You’re asking for discharge? Why that’s insane!’’

Stuart-the-dog-shit-obsessionist was swiftly ushered from the consulting room with extreme despondency, not only because of his denial of leave or discharge but the fact was he still hadn’t been able to explain or express his concerns regarding the consequences of his dog shitting in public when he’d failed to carry a shit scooper bag. According to the council’s solicitors he’d been photographed and CCTV’d committing this heinous act of public indecency, yet he retraced his steps and couldn’t find the camera. As such, he’d began to reason people around him had been the instigators and therefore likely been videoing him and his dog on their walks, supplying the only source of evidence for the council charge. He’d then started to make attempts to find out which one of these vindictive bastard neighbours it was, to no avail. An innocent chat with his C.P.N about this and he was here, due to her anxiolitic proclivities. The terrifying problem was that Stuart-the-dog-shit-obsessionist had never been paranoid before, nor was he obsessed by dog shit and became increasingly depressed by being regarded as an obsessionist about his dog shitting. He had a C.P.N only because he’d had a depressive period in the past and was as such humouring a follow up. This worried him immensely and the dilemma was neither being addressed, nor seen in true light. It was beginning to evolve into his ball and chain of insanity according to the labile doctor with the bizarre overtly ridiculous elbow patches. Stuart retired to his room, his agitation increasing cold hard fear by the ten minute intervals he saw staff checking whether he was paranoid about being watched by people by watching him every ten minutes.

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LA Sykes is a psychotherapist and published sports writer from Manchester England. Bringing a new voice of satire and musings from the inside.

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Author: LA Sykes

Contributor: Jenny Nielsmann

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I love to ride. I love the feel of the sweat as it slicks across my body, runs down the crack of my ass and drips to the cock throbbing between my thighs. I love the movement of men beneath me, the hardness they hurl balls deep into me, filling me, grabbing me with arching fingers as I rise, as I roll my cunt back and forth, cradling every inch of them, teasing them until they cum.

Teasing them until the ride is over.

Teasing them to make them eager, eager for me, eager for the snatch they remember, the hot wetness they crave. I'll play with myself to get them hard again, moan a little in their ears. I know what men like. I know what cocks love.

I love only one thing. I love to ride.


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Blond hair, blue eyes, skin tanned Hawaiian style. You know you want me.

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Author: Jenny Nielsmann

Contributor: Seth Johnson

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Every week she returns to the same room to get fucked by strangers. Man or woman, it makes no difference. She’ll gladly let anyone fuck her. She never knows their names, at least not the ones that speak. They always know hers, even though she rarely uses the same one twice. She changes her appearance, too. But there is always some flaw. On the nights when she is ornamented and manicured, she is also bloated. Other nights she is hurried, almost late, arriving sleepless and bare, unfinished.
Her intentions are pure, even though it is not always easy to tell.
They take turns with her.
She passes from one set of hands to another. Some fuck her more than once. Some can’t stop fucking her. Some get impatient and snatch her away, even though her legs are flipped open to reveal her middle, and her climax is on the tip of another’s tongue. A few of the strangers are gentle with her, caressing her skin, admiring her features. They are the ones who never get to hold her long enough. They are quiet fuckers.
It’s the loud fuckers that get her the longest. Sometimes they are brash, they know the best way she should be fucked. Some of them compare her to other girls they’ve fucked: recently, long ago, or even several times. The other girls are always better, professional, maybe even famous. Something about her, the mole on her cheek or the tone of her voice, reminds them of past conquests.
They boast because some of these girls are hard to fuck.
Most of them, in the interest of the best possible fucking experience, focus on her shortcomings. She takes too long to get them hard. She takes too long to get them wet. She fails to keep them aroused. She quit, just stopped, right when they were getting close. She made them come too soon. Usually, she doesn’t make them come at all.
After, she goes home and rests in a dark place, usually for a long time, sometimes forever. She might decide to fix up her appearance and work out her deeper, more significant issues and really do something with her life. But probably not.


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Author: Seth Johnson

Contributor: P.A.Levy

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crack of dawn (lovely girl is dawn) … morning has broken … up with the larks … in the heroic minute there was a word and the word was cunt …

lancelot awoke from his slumbers and his automatic codpiece extension creaked and groaned to full size to accommodate his gentleman’s good morning
then
as always in this state the first thought to enter lancelot’s mind was
cunt
must get cunt
but he realised his quest could be severely hampered by morning dragon’s breath

when able to reset his codpiece to default position he arose for a slash (this is the only legend with such realistic detail)
then set off for the tavern a pint or two of some mead to honey his rank breath
for this was a known successful remedy after so much smoking skunk but whilst at the tavern lancelot couldn’t help but become besotted with the new serving wench
who was very pretty
and lancelot immediately wished for the wench to give him a tit wank

and the serving girl on seeing lancelot thought
ah knightly cock nightly and aroused him by rubbing her buttocks up against his codpiece which creaked and groaned and as she bewitched him to the thrum of a lute
stole his heart

for the girl worked for dr frankenstien
and they needed fresh body parts
to fulfil a commission to create a new television presenter for
albion’s got x-factor talent when dancing on horseback

keep lancing


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Born East London but now residing amongst the hedge mumblers of rural Suffolk, P.A.Levy has been published in many magazines, both on line and in print, from ‘A cappella Zoo’ to ‘Zygote In My Coffee’. He is also a founding member of the Clueless Collective.

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Author: P.A.Levy