Contributor: Samantha Memi

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The full moon silvers the rain swept street. A dog howls in the distance as the moon hides behind a cloud. A bottle, blown by the wind, rattles along the road. From a corner appears a man, raincoat collar turned up against the inclement weather. He walks till he comes to the grandest house in the street.

He taps lightly on a window and waits. The window opens.

"Alfredo," comes a wispy voice from inside, and a wispy face appears, pallid in the moonlight, anaemic with blood red lips and coal black eyes, "you came."

"I said I would. A boat leaves for Panama at five."

"I cannot go with you Alfredo."

"What do you mean?"

"If I run away with you my father will disown me. You have no money. We will have to live in flea ridden rooms."

"Alfonsina, this cannot be true. Everything is arranged. I will work hard. I will provide you with everything you want."

"But I'm used to having servants wait on my every need. I know you're a good fuck, and I've enjoyed shagging you. But there's got to be more in my life than a stud in my bed."

"Is that all I am to you – a good time in bed."

"No no Alfredo, I love your soft lips and the witty things you say to make me laugh, but my father has power, he would not relent from pursuing you. We would always feel hunted, constantly having to move. I have another idea. Come closer."

Alfonsina whispers to Alfredo.

"My mother wants me to marry Admiral Ramon Eduardo Garcia de la Sierra."
Alfredo gasps, "he's so old."

"Shh, my love, I know he's old. But he's always away on one of his ships so we could meet as often as you wish and we can shag till I'm bandy and you're knock-kneed, and neither of us can walk properly. Sounds good, yes?"

"I don't like to think of you in bed with that horrible old man."

"He has a chauffeur, servants, gardeners, beautiful furniture, holiday chalets, I need those things."

Alfredo looks saddened, he realises the only way he can have anything of Alfonsina is to agree to her wishes, and she is so delightful in bed, soft and white and squelchy.

Alfonsina marries her Admiral. Their wedding night consists of his arthritic hands fondling her soft body and trying to squeeze between her held-fast thighs.

“I'm sorry Ramon, I'm a virgin, I'm so nervous. Please don't scare me."
And she cries.

He leaves to sleep in the guest room. She knows he sees prostitutes and hopes they will satisfy him enough so he won't bother her too often.

A few days later the Admiral has to leave to attend naval exercises.

Alfonsina goes to see her lover Alfredo. She takes a route through back alleys and side streets. She doesn’t want to be seen. She is unaware of being followed. A servant has been entrusted by Ramon to take note of every movement Alfonsina makes, whom she sees, where, and for how long.

Alfredo has booked a room in a seedy hotel. It’s all he can afford. He will book similar rooms over the next two weeks.

Dusk is bringing an end to the day. Bats swarm, silhouetted against the red sky. Alfonsina hurries into the hotel and quickly finds room seven. She hasn’t seen Alfredo for many months. When they meet their bodies glue together with hot kisses and hands caressing and undressing.

The bed squeaks. It annoys Alfonsina, but not enough to disturb her pleasure. After the warmth of loving they lay in each other’s arms, and each wishes to stay like this for ever.

But blushing Alfonsina, flushed after a second bout of lovemaking, must return to her master’s house. She promises Alfredo to meet him again in two days’ time, then hurries away into the night. Following unlit passageways, she scurries along. her skin tingling for the first time for months, her eyes bright like a cat’s, her body warmed from animal passion. Unknown to Alfonsina, she is followed.

***

Admiral Ramon de la Sierra bangs on his desk. His face is red then purple. Enraged by his wife’s infidelity, he wants to take her and rape her and throw her to his hounds. But instead he waits.

Two weeks later, when he has enough evidence to prove the adultery of his treacherous wife, he informs his friend, the commissioner of police. Alfonsina and Alfredo are arrested.

Alfonsina's mother is afraid the trial will bring disgrace to the family name. She begs her husband to talk to Admiral Garcia, but the process of law, once begun, must follow its inexorable course.

The lovers are found guilty of transgressing the norms of a Christian society and sentenced to death. Alfonsina's mother tries to intercede but is overruled by her husband.

Blindfolded, the lovers stand together in front of the firing squad.

Alfredo remembers her mouth over his cock, and the memory gives him an erection which stays even after a bullet shatters his brain.

Alfonsina thinks of the warmth of his arms around her, his breath on her neck, his kisses covering her mouth, and her heart ripples till a bullet splits it in two.


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Samantha Memi is an historian and translator of 19thC Spanish documents. Examples of her historical research can be found at http://samanthamemi.weebly.com/

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Author: Samantha Memi

Contributor: Ryan Swofford

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Hallelujah wants to meet her savior. She’s sitting on the flower mattress, shivering uncontrollably and biting her red tongue. Her wet hair dangles before her eyes. She’s scared because she just had a vision—before you met her, she was shaking wide-eyed and wide-mouthed on the bed with her duck shoes in the air. She was watching a bloody bearded Jesus, skin and bones, as he wandered the Sonoma, looking for a place to stay. The Sonoma was Minneapolis, Minnesota. He came back. He was coming back. He is coming back.

Her little brother, Ronnie, he came over to check on her last night, when she was having the vision I told you about. He came in using the spare key and dropped a cheap bottle of wine on the sofa. He called her name: “Holly!” but she didn’t answer of course. He wandered around the little one-bedroom apartment like it was a giant castle. He kept calling her name: “Holly!” but she was silent of course.

So he knocked on her bedroom door with his ear pressed up against it. He listened and heard some gnarring. Gnawing. Gnashing of teeth. He didn’t want to barge in, though, because he thought maybe she was masturbating. Or, worse, fucking.

When they were younger, he walked in on her fucking maybe twice a week. Most of the time it was when their mom was out drinking and getting nailed by guys from bars—that was when it seemed like Holly had to retaliate—she had to rebel. She would call all the skater guys she promised she’d screw. Sometimes, more than one would show up. “That was an accident,” she’d say. “Seriously, Ronnie: I had no idea both of them would show up.” And she’d thank Ronnie for being cool about it—for making the boys grilled cheese sandwiches while they waited for their turns with Holly. Christ, she must have been one crazy lay. Ronnie still thinks about that every once in a while, but then he feels guilty so he gets drunk instead.

When she didn’t answer the door, Ronnie went into the living room, grabbed the strawberry wine off the couch, and left.

Like I said: Now she’s sitting on the naked mattress. She’s soaking wet—shivering like a baby bird. She tries to light a Parliament with shaky fingers, but she’s too weak to bring her thumb down on the lighter so she lets the cig dangle unlit from her pastel cracked lips. She lifts her finger and sees there’s a string tied around it. She has to remember something, but she doesn’t remember tying anything around anything. She doesn’t remember why there’s a guitar string sticking out of her arm. Or why she’s naked. Or why the mattress is soggy with piss.

She breathes and leads the steel string deeper into her vein.

She said it helps her to remember all the nights that we got over

Hallelujah doesn’t understand why her parents gave her such an ecumenical name and then gave Ronnie such a Jersey Shore bad-boy name. Didn’t they know he was doomed to eternal mocking and torture? I guess it didn’t matter as much back then, but Holly still wonders this as she watches the video feed from her apartment last night. She wonders all sorts of things about her brother, like: How big is his Johnson? And: Is he actually still a virgin? Also, but probably least importantly: Does he call himself an alcoholic or an alkie? They’re all stupid questions, but she figures Jesus will tell her all about it when she gets to Heaven.

The guitar string is all the way in her arm now. The pointy part is stabbing her shoulder and the little knobby doo-dad is poking its purple head out from her main vein—the one doctors poke when they give you a shot—the one you should probably stab with heroin.

Until the end of the week—that’s when He’s supposed to come back—until then she’s stocking up on food. In her vision, she saw things exploding. People exploding. Everything was exploding.

So earlier that morning, she wandered around, holding an empty cardboard box, until she saw a Salvation Army caravan. She stole all the nonperishable shit and left untouched.

When they were kids, she and Ronnie spent a lot of time getting high together. One night, Ronnie had a seizure. They were in the woods and the fire had gone out. Holly wasn’t high because it wasn’t her binging week—she alternated. They were planning on getting Ronnie high on something laced with something (his idiot friend’s party drugs) and hauling him back when he was sober enough to go to school. But now she threw him over her shoulder and walked him home—he was foaming at the mouth and flip-flopping around. She brought him home. Gave him his meds and stroked his soggy white head. Sang him to sleep.

Besides, it ties her outfit all together

On the day He’s supposed to come back, Hallelujah hides under her covers. The Bible says everyone will tremble and shake before Him—they will all know when He comes back. She doesn’t know why she’s supposed to be afraid, but she is anyway. She almost thinks she made herself afraid, but then she shuts her brain up.

This is all Jesus’ doing.

She had four Valiums but she’s still completely unhinged. Like a door swinging open. Knocking your fucking teeth out.

She’s still naked—she’s been naked for three straight weeks now. She thinks a string around her finger is _the_ accessory of the season. Ronnie came to visit, but she hid from him. She watched the cameras. Then she cleaned her mattress with some bleach.

Now, it smells like bleach. Her nose is in it. She’s crying. Terrified.

Ronnie opens her bedroom door. Finally, he walks to her bed and sits down.

And he sings her to sleep.


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Author: Ryan Swofford

Contributor: Steven Kain

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Jay and Ruthy were in love cause Ruthy loved Jay and Jay loved Ruthy back and neither of them gave a good god damn if you liked it so screw off and that was their view of the situation for the longest time.
Ruthy was a calendar collector. She had a calendar for every day of the year. She pinned them up on the walls of their itty bit four room apartment. She did not have space for the Decembers so she taped those to the windows. Kitty cats, dogs, nature, tv shows, men and women models. Ruthy liked to look at every day as a day of the month and a day of the year in and of itself.
Jay was a Bible thief. He preferred the King James versions but any Bible would do, those New Testament pocket Bibles or the Teen easy reading Bibles, children’s Bibles with pictures. Every Sunday he would visit a new church and steal the community Bible placed in his pew. People just assumed he was a churchgoer that brought his own personal Bible with him as many do. He would also steal or buy them from bookstores or libraries or motel rooms but the churches had the largest selection. Jay had stacks to the ceiling wrapped around his computer desk. Pushing in his gut was essential to pinch through. Jay knew the Holy Book kept the demons at bay. Once he discovered you could download a Bible app on your cell phone or read the whole Bible on the internet his obsession died down.
Jay and Ruthy met at the zoo. Jay was trying to pass a Reese’s Piece into the monkey cage for his friend George he visited every Tuesday. Ruthy saw this and protested but Jay stole her heart away when explaining his philosophy on candy and life. There is no wrong way.
He proposed to her on a seesaw in the park. The ultimate test of trust. She said yes. He said yay! They celebrated on the jungle gym. A boy found their condom the next day, picked it up with a stick and chased a little girl with it.
Now they lived by the day. Jay pushed carts at Shop Right while Ruthy waited tables at Pizza Hut. Jay dreamed of being a limo driver, transporting the big wig celebrities from place to place but the driver’s license test was so dang tricky. Trick questions where either two answers could both be right or no answers seemed to make sense. Every month he went to the DMV with his lucky green socks and his mood ring bright orange. Jay was never good with books but he knew he’d pass the actual road test like a real rock star. Like Bono. One time he got a 78 which is only 2 points away from passing. Mrs. Hall the old colored lady that oversaw his test said she’d bake him a cake the day he finally passed it. Until then he had Ruthy to drive him around who was really smart except that she smoked Virginia Slims.
Ruthy wanted to be Beyonce because she is the most beautiful girl in the entire whole planet and the most talented Diva that has ever come out of the world at any point in time where people in the earth were singing songs and dancing. That girl can really put on a show she’d always say. She really would always say that.
Things went down the hill with Jack and Jill one day when it was Friday so of course Jay’s day off. He was playing Star Fox 64 for the Nintendo 64 entertainment system and he pushed pause 4/12’s of the way into the game in order to pee. Ruthy all the time complained of Jay squirting on the toilet seat and floor so Jay had made a habit to sit when he peed. But Ruthy was working shift at the hut so Jay said, “What the HELL, Ruthy won’t find out I won’t tell her!” He had a mild erection because he was thinking about that one scene in Wild Things where Matt Dillion hooks up with both Denise Richards and also Neve Campbell too! He shoulda waited till he softened down but he didn’t and the short powerful burst of piss like a super soaker gun pumped and pumped into full throttle was powerful enough for the toilet water to sprinkle out on the lid. When he took a step back to try and solve this problem he didn’t adjust his aim and shot a spray of urine on the floor.
“Oh oh spaghettos!” which Jay liked to say whenever under heavy circumstances. Jay didn’t realize he could wipe up the mess with a tissue because Ruthy like his mother before her always cleaned up the bathroom. He knew she would come home and be the exact opposite of happy. When the piss hits the floor the shit hits the fan as his second cousin Dave from Delaware used to say concerning women.
Jay would write a note to Ruthy explaining the situation as it happened, he would apologize, he would promise to make it up to her and tell her he was sorry and apologize to her. Jay had a pen that was blue with black ink but he had no paper. Ruthy had a notebook in the bottom drawer of her nightstand. She loved to draw clocks but with the numbers in the wrong order. She had a theory that 4:00 should come directly after 7:00. Never mind, he would rip a page from the book to make things right. He opened the drawer and on top the notebook sat a black bag. He looked into the black bag mildly curious but not expecting much but boy what he found really shook his shoes to untie. I mean it really made his contacts pop out his eye sockets, his chapstick bleed red, his t shirt turn backwards and inside out. A dildo!!!!!! !!! !! ! !!!!!!!
A dildo is basically for all intents and purposes a fake penis. It is made out of some kind of rubber or plastic and it’s shaped like a cock with a head at the end and this particular one even had a vein sticking out. Women use it to have sex without needing a man. It is a form of masturbation for lonely fat women and dikes. Ruthy only weighed 133 pounds and hated most girls.
Jay was flabbergasted at the sight of the shaft. At least it isn’t black he thought to himself. Why did she own this product? They did it a lot. Like a lot a lot. Jay walked out of their bedroom clenching in hand his worst enemy. His anger exploded in the living room when he began kicking the walls of Jericho to the ground while slinging Steely Dan around. How could this be? Ruthy said she loved Jay’s penis. She used to stroke it to attention and then sing into it like a microphone. “jerking off Jay Ima jerking off Jay, everything is okay when ya jerking off Jay!” He wondered if girls liked to suck on dildos. Was it possible that he’d kissed her before with the hint of dildo breath on her mouth?
Jay saw one touching oneself after marriage as a form of cheating with ones partner with one’s self. Uncleanliness. Filth. Those words came to mind. After the Holy Books crumbled to the ground Jay started ripping calendars off the walls until he got a great idea and stormed off to the bathroom. He grabbed the hand soap he took to the toilet, got on his knees and started washing the dildo in toilet water. Filth should be cleansed with filth. This is where Ruthy found Jay as she entered the apartment.
Ruthy had had a rough day. Triplets were celebrating their birthday at Pizza Hut that afternoon and she had to sing Happy Birthday three times in a row. Another guy tipped her with a pack of football cards. She ran out of cigarettes on her last break and had to bum a cigar of her manager. Her monthly visit from mother-nature arrived sometime in the evening as well. So when Ruthy came home to a trashed apartment and her husband’s soapy hands jerking off her dildo in the toilet it made her the exact opposite of happy.
“Shucks Jay what the hell are you doing. Is that my…..Jay what the fuck are you doing with that it’s mine!”
Jay turned to Ruthy but didn’t stop what he was doing.
“What the fuck am I doing? What the fuck am I doing! What the fuck is this! Am I not enough man for you! Huh? Would you love me more if my dick magically vibrated!”
“Jay it’s not a big deal. I barely use it anymore. I bought that stupid thing from some yard sale when I was like 14.”
“Barely huh! And who exactly are you thinking about when you play with this THING! Bono? It is Bono isn’t it. this is what you’re doing when you’re in here alone listening to the Joshua Tree!”
“Well.. yeah sometimes I do play music as an excuse to be alone but I’m only thinking about you when I use it baby you have to know that!”
“You’re a fake. And a liar. And a bullshit artist. I hate you and your nasty smoking habit.”
Ruthy goes to Jay and kneels down beside him on the floor even wetter than before from the splishing and a splashing.
“Baby you know how you won’t do it with me when I’m on my period? Well I always wish you would. I get abnormally horny this time of month and it helps me deal with my cramps”
“Ruthy I always thought you didn’t want to make a mess like that. I’d have absolutely no problem at all really I really wouldn’t have any problem having sex with you on your period.”
“Really? No sike?”
“No sike”
“Also umm… I like to use it somewhere else as well”
“In your mouth?!”
“No…eww no! Who would stick that thing in their mouth? You’d get mad dildo breath or something. No I sometimes like to shove it in my stinker. When I was younger I used to kinda like it when I had to take a shit I’d like push the feces out just a little and suck it back in. It’s hard to explain but then I, eventually after I figured out how to finger myself I started fingering my butthole too and would stick the eraser side of a pencil in there and….. other things like that. Guess if I was a guy I’d be a fag or something but I don’t know. I figured you wouldn’t be too into that I mean it’s kinda gross I don’t always wipe as good as I should.”
“Ruthy I would love, you gotta believe me. I would love to stick my dick inside your asshole. I’ve always kinda wanted to just poke it in there and see if you’d notice or say anything but I never had the nerve to. I thought you would slap me for sure! haha Like really I thought you would get soooo mad you would just think I’m a complete pervert or something!”
“No not at all. Jay it would mean so much to me if you would do me that honor.”

Not another word was spoken as the two lovers embraced in a kiss and Jay gently positioned his women on the floor. They didn’t remember ripping off one another’s clothing, it felt as if they had eaten from the tree of knowledge and their clothes just disappeared. Ruthy eventually took position on top of Jay and gladly helped guide him into her bloody wound. Her gleaming eyes seemed to dilate from the surprised sensation of Jay successfully plunging the dildo deep into her ass hole first try.
And Jay still loves Ruthy and Ruthy loves Jay also and they love each other and they like to try different things now and they’ve learned to be comfortable expressing them and if you don’t like it when Ruthy puts the strap-on on to attack Jay doggy style they don’t care because it’s none of your business anyway they don’t think really.


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I eat. I shit. I write.

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Author: Steven Kain

Contributor: Robert E. Petras

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According to Mackey, no news was good news because happiness was merely a neutral state. Anybody who said that she was happy, as his ex-wife Katie always claimed, was simply lying through her Botox. Besides they were simply too
busy beings assholes.
According to Mackey, society these days basically produced two personality types: A and AA—asshole and double asshole. The nice guys, such as Mackey, were on the endangered species list. That nice guys finished last was a misstatement; most of the time nice guys didn’t even finish.
Mackey’s own mood swings, his doctor attributed to a chemical imbalance, the primary chemical being alcohol. He was sitting on his front porch swing, contemplating recent events and sipping on a glass of Shiraz. The wine had a fruity taste, like Fruit of the Looms, putting the triple exclamation point at the end of a shitty workweek. Through the mail on Wednesday, he received a rejection slip from a small magazine. Thursday, the Postal Service greeted him with a certified letter as the defendant in a lawsuit, stating his incompetence as a furnace installer led to the destruction of a 3500-dollar unit and another five-thousand in damages to the residence. Friday, he received a restraining order prohibiting him from coming within a quarter-mile of the home of the Bungers, the family suing him.
He was feeling such a strain from the burden of all these assholes Mackey was feeling like Atlas’s balls. Then he remembered revenge was the motherfucker of invention.
He recalled viewing a CNN broadcast of an Air Force ground crew loading bombs onto jets. These bombs had painted onto their shells “To Saddam with Love” and “Happy B-day Bagdad Bob.” Not so much as a cherry bomb could be found inside Mackey’s house, but outside sat plenty of two- and three-foot diameter log stumps at the woodpile for splitting. Into the stumps he could carve the names of the Bungholes and then roll the stumps down the 700-foot hill in the woods behind his house.
If Mackey could not have immediate revenge, he could have it symbolically.
In the coolness of sunset, he hacked into a red oak stump “Rod Bunger and Marianne Bunger” with a slash running through the names and repeated the effort upon the other side with “Phillip Stainer,” his old high school principal, who had wrongly paddled him in seventh grade. “There’s one for old Shit Stain,” he muttered while staring at the engraved log. “Here’s one for old Ass Hole Stein,” he said upon finishing carving the name of the high school baseball coach, John Holstein, who had cut him from the team during tryouts.
After Mackey pried the stump upright with a two-by-four, the log stood three- feet tall and 18 inches wide. With its jagged bark, the red oak stump looked like a dull circular saw capable of smashing saplings and boring a path through the thickest briars once unleashed down the 35-degree slope. Where the edge of the tree line met the sparse grass of his lower lawn, Mackey noticed a healthy patch of poison ivy growing. He twisted the stump so that it edged toward the noxious plants.
Thanks to his Boy Scout troop master, Mackey knew this toxic weed was covered with an invisible wax called urishiol, the substance with which skin contact meant an ugly, itchy, blotchy rash, and, in some extreme cases, hospitalization and even the eternal ten count.
Not everyone who contacted it suffered an allergic reaction, like Scout Master Jackson, forever referred to by Mackey as old Jackoff, who once demonstrated this fact upon a camping trip by plowing through shoulder-high poison ivy and did not so much suffer a red freckle during the weeklong event. “But don’t you dare go near poison ivy,” old Jackoff said. “Leaves of three let them be.”
“Leaves of three let them breed,” Mackey said thirty years later, shoving the stump until it rolled on its own, picking up momentum through the ivy patch; then he heard wood snapping along with a staticky waterfall sound intermingled with a glissando of wood conking into wood, and then all sound segued into solemn quiet, like the aftermath of thunder.
The spores of creation settled in Mackey’s skull while he washed his hands with Irish Spring, the green soap reminding him of the color of poison ivy. He could rub the colorless ivy wax urishiol onto green stationary and send an unaddressed letter to the Bungholes and maybe they could contact a nice rash. The necessity for revenge was indeed the motherfucker of invention.
He opened a bottle of cheap merlot and toasted his brilliance. He would send the poison ivy on a chain letter.
Hands dried, Mackey composed these words, simple and terse: “Send a copy of this letter to ten people and good fortune will accompany you. Fail to do so and you will soon suffer misfortune.”
The following evening after work, he stopped at a pharmacy and bought green stationary, a box of surgical gloves and a pair of tweezers. Returning to his car, Mackey encountered Joe Walters, one of his few former high school classmates, who wasn’t a stuck-up prick. “Did you hear about old Shit Stain?” Walters asked.
“The school board finally fired him?”
“Nah, even better, somebody rear-ended him last night, put him in the hospital with a fractured neck.”
“You know,” Mackey said, “He treated me like a member of his family, the red-headed stepchild, but nobody deserves that.”
“You were always the nice guy, Mack. A little sufferering will do him good; he’ll be wearing a plaster lifesaver around his neck for a long time.”
After supper and wine, Mackey printed ten copies of the chain letter onto green stationary. Now came the tricky part of the project.
Mackey was one of the 15 percent of people whom poison ivy did not affect. He was not taking any chances while working the bushes growing along the tree line. To him the emerald leaves appeared greasy and bloated. Hands protected by surgical gloves, arms Saran-wrapped, he sheered the leaves with hedge clippers, arms fully extended. After delicately collecting the leaves with a nail extending from a broom handle, he deposited them into a plastic bucket. With tweezers he rolled the poison ivy leaves into cigars and swiped them across the printed, pre-folded green chain letter, all the time being cautious not to smear them with a green slick from the skin of leaves.
Ten copies he had doctored with poison ivy wax—ten lethal letters ready for insertion into envelopes addressed to ten AA personalities. Mackey addressed one envelope apiece to the Bungholes and even one to their twelve-year-old daughter Missy, who already had a heart as cold as a witch’s tit in a brass training bra. Another he addressed to Scout Master Jackoff for believing he was King Shit of Grand Turd Island, one apiece to his two ex-wives, and one to his ex-mother-in-law, Erica Show. “People who live in mud houses should not throw water balloons,” Mackey said to himself. “This one’s for you, Tit Show.” Another two were going to bitches who had given him the flick and one was designated for Shit Stain, just for good measure.
Mackey had always scoffed at people who bought lottery tickets, but paid a dollar for an instant ticket from a convenience store and scratched off a one-thousand-dollar winner. The way his day was going, he would not be surprised if he shit gold nuggets.
At night, under the cover of darkness, he pulled up his Jeep Compass beside a drive-through mailbox outside the post office. “All assholes are going to get their due,” he said while stuffing the letters down the chute. Mackey knew plenty more assholes. One thing about assholedom, it was indiscriminate. This was certainly one asshole friendly town.
The ensuing day he laced another ten letters and deposited them in a different mailbox after encircling the block three times until he was certain the street was deserted and then waited for another tidal wave of luck.
Three days later, he got lucky—physically—while adding a fan to an inside air-conditioning unit. First, he felt the shadow sweeping over him. The practice of people peeping over his shoulder while he worked was one exhibited by assholes, but when he turned he saw that this particular asshole was the bull’s eye of a tattoo of a white and red circular target.
Later in the day, he learned his former baseball coach, Asshole-Stein, suffered a stroke and was hospitalized. “Damn, that log roll has some kind of powerful voodoo,” he said to himself. Even his cheap box wine tasted better, with hints of strawberries, chocolate, oak, roses and a strong finish of revenge. He poured himself a glass of cabernet and picked up the evening paper, the headline reading “POISON IVY EPIDEMIC HITS TOWN.” The article even mentioned a mysterious case of former high school principal Phillip Stainer contacting poison ivy after seven days of recovery at the hospital.
“Could things go any better?” Mackey thought. That evening he mailed ten additional chain letters, including four to magazine editors who had rejected his short stories, three more to the Bungholers, one to a nun named Sister Leona Utsinger who had once tailgated him for a mile on the highway. “Butsinger!” he had yelled out loud through the window as he flipped her off. The other two laced letters went to girls who had rejected him at a seventh grade dance.
The following day, the satisfied customer called him back to take a look at her best friend’s unit, the call coming over his cell phone moments after he picked from the bottom of a Crackerjacks box a pack of condoms. Mackey was feeling so lucky he decided to check out the tan lines at the beach. His luck was almost too good to be true, because there laying prone upon the sand were the Bungholes. But that was not calamine lotion Freckle Tits was rubbing on the back of Slobbo but 30 SUV Coppertone.
Back home in the late afternoon, Mackey collected his mail. Leafing through it, he noticed an unaddressed envelope and opened it; sure enough in his exact words printed on white paper was the chain letter. He shredded it with his fingers and sprinkled the confetti into a wastepaper basket.
Two bottles of wine later, he was carving the Bunger’s names on both sides of a log stump. Maybe the original stopped shy of the creek, failing to impart the full power of the voodoo. That had to be the reason. Not only was Mackey brilliant and lucky, he was the champion of anti-assholes, a crusader to wipe out ass clowns such as the Bungholes. This stump was even heavier than the first, so much that Mackey had to pry it upright with a ten-foot plank. As he prepared to give the log a running shove, Mackey felt an itch upon the hairless part of his wrist. He stared at his wrist and saw the red blisters characteristic of poison ivy.
He would tend to his wrist later. First, he had work to do.
Like a brakeman on a bobsledding team, Mackey thrust the stump out as he hit full stride, but an unseen tree root stopped the momentum of the log, causing him to somersault over the stump and to land upon his back a body length downhill, knocking the breath from him.
First, he heard the root snap and then the sound of his own skull crunching by the runaway monster. There was ringing in his ears, but he could still hear the log stump bounding down the hillside—a lifetime--the cascading noise becoming fainter and fainter until he heard and felt only the quiet coolness of still water, and for the first time in his life, he felt happy.


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Robert E. Petras is a graduate of West Liberty University and a resident of Toronto, Ohio. His poetry and fiction have appeared in Razor Dildo, Yesteryear Fiction, Death Head Grin, Haunted Waters Press and Heyday Magazine.

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Author: Robert E. Petras

Contributor: Anna-Jane Johnson

- -
I’ve got a question.

What do you do
When your genre of choice,
The one that was all you wrote about
As a hormonal little middle schooler
And socially inept freshman
And clinically depressed young woman,
Suffers from a reputation so tarnished
That you know it’d be better to give up on it
And write something that people actually
Give a shit about?

”Of the moonless nights they are kings,
darkness is their kingdom.
Carrying death and sowing terror.
the dark Vampires fly
with great suede wings
ready not only to do evil...
but to do even worse.”

That’s from a silent film called ‘Les Vampires’.
I used to whisper that monologue to myself
As I walked along the streets of Grand Haven after dark,
Snowflakes melting on my cheeks as I
Imagined what it would be like if Anne Rice’s Lestat
Lurked in the shadows of the suburban enclaves.

Sleepy little town on the Lake Michigan waterfront?
Yes.

A slice of Christian Reform Americana?
Yes.

Looks like more of a bloodsucker haven
Than Forks, Washington ever could,
Especially in the spring when the fog rolls in
And the place looks like a Lovecraftian paradise?

Hell yes.

But then the words of my mentor,
The one whose voice rings in my head
Whenever I so much as think about writing about my leeches,
Taunts me from all directions -

”No one will take you seriously.
Vampire stories kill time
That could be spent writing something of substance.
Nothing more.”

He might as well just go ahead and say
That vampire stories are for hacks who want
To write their own porn.
He’s got to be thinking something to that effect.

And of course,
There’s all the Twatlighters who demand Cullen Clones,
Glaring when I yawn and say,
”Eduardo WISHES he was cool enough
To rock that James Dean Jacket.
He can go suck Nosferatu Dick for all I care.
That emo son of a bitch doesn’t even have fangs.”

Vampires are supposed to be scary.
They’re analogies for plague and sexual predators.
They don’t feel bad for killing, they have no soul,
And they don’t fucking sparkle.

That novel I’m writing?
The one that my friends and comrades
Are always gushing about?
Begging for new chapters of?

Eddie St. Clair.
The character was always a snarky writer.
But do you want to know what he was originally?
Before I was told to put the kibosh on the leeches?

He was going to be a vampire.
The kind who adores his gallows humor
And who isn’t above having his victim of choice
Snort a few lines before fang meets neck.

His hunting grounds were nightclubs.
He’d stalk the place until he found
A sufficiently intoxicated young lady
Who also happened to be on the rag.
His proudest conquest – both vampiric and sexual -
Was a nun in a confessional.

He was going to be the vampire Hank Moody.

Now he’s mortal.
He’s a writer who went crazy.
He’s Sylvia Plath with a cock
And the plot’s become so damn trite,
I might as well be writing
For a Victorian penny dreadful.

Eddie’s dad, Crazy Doctor Julian,
Was going to have a spine and a taste
For Type O with a shot of absinthe.
Eddie’s wife was going to be a Prozac-addled Ophelia,
Driven to the madhouse when no one believed
That the man she married had become a monster.

There was going to be a gay vampire
Married to a Mormon woman
In what may or may not have been a ‘Fuck You’
Directed at Stephenie Meyer.

Bereft of all hope,
A broken and bloodthirsty young woman
Was going to crumble into dust
As sunrise hit the Grand Haven pier,
The lyrics to Tweaker’s ‘Crude Sunlight’
The last thing to cross her mind
Before the first UV rays of the day
Burnt her brain to ash.

Werewolves congregated
At the Morning Star Café.
Notes left in Loutit Library books
Would put evil spirits to rest.
There was a St. Clair family crypt
Where Eddie’s cult following
Would make a wish and leave a lipstick stain,
Kissing epitaphs in zealous reverie.

Back in the days when I imagined
That there truly was something lurking in the shadows,
My hometown didn’t seem so damn boring.

But all that’s gone now.

Vampires,
As my nearest and dearest are fond of telling me,
Are young adult paperback fodder.

I can’t completely disagree.

But regardless.

Abandoning the Grand Haven Coven
Feels like I’m betraying my own children.

I don’t know what to write anymore.
I’m out of my element,
My writing’s giving off death rattles,
And fuck all if I can find the pulse.

- Thursday, February 16th, 2012.


- - -
Anna-Jane Johnson is a previously unpublished writer of supernatural smut and bitter snark. She is currently working on a novel about a poet who goes through a nervous breakdown, tentatively titled ‘Detox’, and trying to survive suburban hell.

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Author: Anna-Jane Johnson

Contributor: Warren Danbarb

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He screwed the warrior maiden right there on the cliff. She was barely clad in her bear skin armour. He thrusted and pounded. She was otherwise engaged, she was focusing on the coming onslaught. She looked up quickly from her vantage. He took the cue and pulled two machine guns from behind him and sprayed the purple fuckers full of lead. They crumpled and she came, socketing his cock deep inside. She closed her eyes in pleasure. He opened his eyes, and traced the fan above. He was sprawled on top of his bed. He reached in a drawer next to him and pulled out the cheap bottle of vodka. His cock was raw and his ass sore. It had happened since he was fourteen, and lent towards a fondness for Hulk comics. It came and went. It was more than a dream, he could feel everything as real as the vodka pouring down his throat. The thing that really got him was he was the woman, the bear skin vixen with an insatiable taste for cock and blood. He laid there alone, wondering when it would happen again. That's why he stayed to himself and couldn't hold down a job. He took another slug off the bottle. Closed his eyes and waited.


- - -
Warren Danbar was raised in Missouri on junk food and Sci-Fi. He's had a fondness for unproductive writing since high school. He finds himself in rolling metal boxes too often, and in front of a blank page too little. When avoiding those two things he likes to ride bikes.

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Author: Warren Danbarb

Contributor: Edward T. Keller

- -
Whenever I decide to take a flight over the city with the gray pigeons I get undressed and crouch on the windowsill, the wind tickling my sagging genitalia, the cars and pedestrians below fondling my nipples. Or is it me doing that?

But every time I do this, the bosomy, sturdy lady that inhabits an apartment right across the street plops a leg on her windowsill and starts shaving it with elaborate queenly movements. She meets my gaze and smiles an oily smile, making me want to tremble and gnaw on things.

Today it started to rain. Cats, dogs and hedgehogs splattered on pavements and car roofs, bringing down old ladies and the cats and dogs that were on the street at the time. I saw a cat fall on a cat and kill it.

The lady in the window across the street yelped and her leg also fell downwards. She must have cut herself while shaving.

The plump leg fell for eternity, ripples running through the cellulite in direction opposite to the fall. Then it landed on another walking leg and killed it.

Then a granny fell from a lower window and fell on another granny, smashing through her umbrella and killing her stone dead.

The sky was now clouded over; the temperatures fell and my balls shriveled up.

Alas, my pigeon friends, this could only mean that November is just around the corner.


- - -

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Author: Edward T. Keller

Contributor: Matthew Wilson

- -
Mary Kelly knew she was in trouble. Nothing new there but this time it was bigger. Worse.
The autumn of terror was almost over, now a winter of hard ship was coming fast as Stephenson`s rocket.
She needed money, or a way out. She`d waited in the ten bell`s pub for the right person two weeks running straight. Not perfect but close in build and hair colour. She took pity on the young prostitute, Annie - typical story, abusive father, absent mother - promptly bought her some drink and invited Ms homeless back to her digs.
Joe Barnett wouldn`t like it as he was main bread winner but ever since the arguments she cared little for what he said.
She was little then six months younger then Mary, her hair not quite as red and nose a might squarer but in time no one would know. History would forget such a silly name as Jack.
People popped their head out the window shouting as Mary and Annie staggered into Miller`s court blaring out at a hundred decibels a very groggy re-edition of "When I was young I took some flowers to my mother`s grave."
Mary took an immediate liking to the girl, it was a song her mother was fond of in grimy Cork. Mary had never had anything to her name, everything second hand, fit only for the tip. Yes, she liked her. She still she felt guilty.
Everyone said Mary was big hearted, she thought nothing of giving the girl the last bite of her apple. The sleeping draught inside put her out in moments.
Mary hoped it was fast, she`d hate to think she might hurt her, that she might be awake when what she did next happened. She had been so full of happiness, laughter. She had only a moment, maybe less to scream as Mary pulled the blade from under her stained mattress and slit her throat.
She started on the face first, took her time taking apart her Roman nose, her cheeks and mouth that would tell no secrets.
This had to look right, the work of a mad man, she cut the heart out and threw it on the fire. It emitted a bizarre simmering smell. Mary wiped her lip, wondering when she had cut herself and realised she was drooling. The heart exploded, showering her in vile, red, fatty juice.
Poor girl, so sweet and trusting.
But Mary was desperate, she owed the man two grand, not to mention being months behind in rent, she`d have to work the streets for ten years to pay it all back. If Mary Kelly died, all account`s were closed.
But Mary was twenty five, she loved life. Suicide wasn`t the thing even though the name holder had to die. Who`d have thought tearing up a body could be so noisy? She couldn`t be sure Miller`s court was asleep but she couldnt chance it. She had crossed the line.
No going back.
She started singing again, a little louder then before, wondering how butchers with stood the terrible rips of muscle and sinew as she rolled up her sleeves, meticulously de-fleshing the girl.
Of course, Whitechapel Jack would deny the killing when he was caught, but who could ever trust a pscyho? London was dead to her, no heaven at the best of time`s with the ripper about, staying round was walking on a fine line. Most of her friends were dead.
Long Liz, dark Annie, those that stayed would surely fall under his blade, the mad mad seemed to have a personal vendetta none but the noose would deter.
Mary had only ever had one good thing, her mothers dress, a long black gown, the dream of Irish ladies. Mary had never asked mother where she`d gotten it, she`s always had amazingly light fingers, she removed her blood stained dress and lay it carefully on the flames so it would not catch the carpet.
Mom`s dress fitted like a charm.
She still had it.
Still humming mother`s lullaby, she locked the door behind her as she left, cupped her hand to her mouth and shouted, "Oh, murder!"
This time next week, Jack would be rotting in New gate and she`d be sipping cocktails in Cork. Yes, history would forget.
Jack the ripper?
Such a silly name.


- - -
Matthew Wilson, 29, is a UK resident who has been writing since an early age and recently these stories have escaped to magazines and ezines such as literary lunes and static movement.

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Author: Matthew Wilson

Contributor: Lusty

- -
Masturbating sure did sound nice for Kandy (as her stripper friends called her.) Boy, are these nails nice, she thought. They were acrylic, with a salmon pink on them with rainbow poke-a-dots complimenting the excitingly bright color. Sharp didn't explain the profuse acuity of them. A dull poke to the pupil would be menacing. She considering doing that when she thought about her mudflap (as she liked to call him) ex-boyfriend, Tim. He sure was an asshole.
She started off lightly rubbing her crotch thoroughly through her skin-tight jeans. After a bit of foreplay, she ripped them off. She could see lacerations from her jeans on her skin. She leaned back in her half-way torn apart Laz-e Boy recliner that Mr. Mudflap destroyed in a drunken rage. She rubbed herself through her panties and indulged in the wonders of masturbation.
Her panties were soaking wet by the time she slipped them off. Once they were around her ankles, she dug deeper, getting every crevice inside her vagina and rubbing her clit rapidly. She moaned and hollered; she was thankful that she didn’t have any neighbors, the old fucks would probably tell her to stop the rub session.
She was in ecstasy; it felt better than any man could make her feel. Just to think, she had the ultimate pleasure device attached to her. She fingered herself for minutes, hoping that it would never end.
That’s when she heard a snap! That came from her crotch area. She felt a sudden, sharp pain inside her pussy. She withdrew her wet hand from her vagina and noticed she was missing a nail. There was a miniscule spot of blood next the absent nail. She soon realized that it was from her vagina, rather than the fact that her nail was torn off.
The pain kicked in every second that the nail was in her vagina. She could feel that it was sticking straight up, piercing the upper-region of the pink cave. I just had to pick the longest, sharpest ones. She thought, while holding her pussy.
She squeezed, nothing came out. She then knew that she had to dig in deep and retrieve it before it destroyed her clitoris. She shimmied her hand inside, feeling around. The little fuckers deep she though. She could only feel it with the top of her finger.
Every time she moved, it mutilated the back of her vagina further. She knew that there was no chance of just letting it slide out because it was stuck in the top and bottom of her pussy. She had to grab it.
She shoved her hand in further then she ever thought was possible. It was the strangest feeling, very unnatural. She poked and prodded every small space in her originally air-tight vagina. She started to gag, almost to the point of puking, partly from her hand completely in her vagina and the other part because it was wet, like a cave.
At last, she grabbed the dread nail. It was slimy to the point where she thought it could have been a second clitoris or some such absurd thing. She grabbed it with her index and middle finger. As she was pulling it out, it ripped the top and bottom of her vagina in a straight line. It was the most painful thing she had ever felt.
The goddamned thing was completely red, no pink or pretty designs were visible. She ran to the bathroom and washed her hands (using extra soap.) She threw the dreaded nail in the garbage and did her best to clean every inch of blood out of her vagina so it wouldn’t clot. As she was doing so, she looked at her hand. There was no nail on her middle finger. She sat down and wept, and her vagina did the same.


- - -
I'm a not very known writer that generally writes about taboo topics. If you want to contact me, send me an email to 'Impgardens@yahoo.com' (:

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Author: Lusty

Contributor: Lusty

- -
Being a lesbian was so nice for Amber; she didn't have to worry about stretching her vagina just to get laid, she didn't have to worry about the cancerous beings called men, and most importantly, she got to indulge and partake in the beauties that make women.
She got ready in her small suburban house for a big night out with her girlfriend Zina (or "partner" as those fucking media moguls call it.) They planned on going to a strip club called 'Cumming Attractions'. It was surprisingly nice despite what the porn-ish name suggests. Zina was a dancer there but she didn't have work that night.
Amber brushed her red hair thoroughly. It fell dancingly down onto her milky shoulders. Zina walked in, grabbed Ambers tits from behind (in a pedophile way) and told her how ravishing she looked. They kissed and Amber brushed Zina's hair as well. She brushed every strand, including the essential pink, stripper highlights.
They left a few minutes later and arrived at Cumming Attractions. Amber's favorite dancers were dancing that night: Elly, Giselle, and Sevena. She made petty attempts at fucking Elly, but it never went through because she found the all-mighty Zina. The night she saw her dancing, she was sliding up and down on the pole in fishnets and in a sexy cop outfit. Her handcuffs dangled around and her shirt was unbuttoned, unveiling her tan breasts (which made Amber practically have an orgasm on the spot.)
Amber did shots at the bar while Elly did her cowgirl dance. She planned on getting pretty faded and having Zina drive her home. I wonder why Zina isn't getting wasted. She thought
Amber shoved 5 bucks down Elly's panties and cheered her one.
"This is great, eh?" Amber asked.
"Yeah, definitely." Zina replied, "hey, listen, I'm going to the bathroom. You should follow." She smiled.
By that point in their relationship, Amber knew that meant they were going to have a nice 'lick session' (as Zina called it.) She followed her into the shockingly clean bathroom. The bathroom was vacant so they automatically started kissing each other everywhere. Zina set her purse down in the stall and they busted into it. Amber began kissing Zina's neck all the way down to her belly button. She started going down on her and she moaned wildly. While she licked up and down rapidly, she saw something in Zina's purse. She soon identified it as a pregnancy test. She quit licking abruptly, and pulled it out: positive.
"What the fuck!" She hollered.
"Babe, babe, babe, come on. It's nothing."
"What do you mean nothing? You're pregnant!"
"I know! I'm sorry!" She started crying. She hugged Amber's head. Her pussy was still out in the open and her breasts were as well.
"You've been fucking people behind my back?"
"No, of course not. I was just drunk one night and some fucking guy picked me up. I don't remember it at all."
"Whatever, I'm going home."
They were silent on the way home. Once they got home they talked about what they were going to do, Zina definitely couldn't dance anymore. They decided that Amber would stay home with baby while Zina (or Leslie now that she wasn't stripping,) would work at her father's business as a secretary or some dull thing.
Amber decided that having a baby might actually be good experience in some way. She may have been too faded to decide for sure. She did know for a fact that it was time to grow up. No more drinking. No more bullshit; Just a simple life with her gorgeous lesbian lover and baby Elenyx or Adrian depending on the gender.
They walked in to the bedroom and continued what they didn't finish. Zina licked Amber up and down. She was in ecstasy . A few minutes later they rubbed each other off until they both were finished and laid down for bed. Amber kept her hand on Zina/Leslie's stomach, thinking about the precious baby.


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I am a not-so accomplished writer who writes about candid subjects such as sex, booze, and the simple lives of simple people.

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Author: Lusty