Contributor: Joshua Dobson

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I had long harbored suspicions that my nubile blonde underling Jodi had a tingle in her pussy for me. She dressed mouth-wateringly slutty and broke into a shit-eating grin whenever she caught me copping a carnal eyeful of the orange spray-on-tanned flesh she so freely displayed.
Her voice kinda got on my nerves sometimes and she had big huge blue eyes with a crazy twinkle glimmering in them, like that lady on the news who killed her baby and cut it open, cuz she thought it had stolen her liver whilst in the womb; she had icy blue psycho-eyes.
“I cut myself shaving,” Jodi chirped flirtatiously, batting her fake eyelashes at me, “Wanna see?”
I nodded my head yes.
She pulled up her black leather miniskirt until it bunched around her waist. She wore a shiny pink thong. She planted her stiletto-heeled right foot on top of my desk, treating me to a view of the inside of her thigh, it’s perfectly smooth orange finish disrupted by a gaping bloody laceration.
The sight froze me in lust.
“If you wanna, you can stick your finger in it,” my slutty secretary bubbled coquettishly.
I plunged my finger into the open wound on my artificially tanned secretary’s meaty thigh. It was warm and gooey inside, the laceration sucked on my probing finger like a hungry infant. I pushed my bony digit into the wound until I felt the hard smoothness of her femur against the tip of my finger.
“If you wanna, you can stick your dick in it?” my slutty secretary bubbled coquettishly.
Unable to speak, I jerked my zipper down and freed my throbbing cock from my trousers. I rubbed the head of my turgid phallus against the hot wet wound. The hungry wound sucked my member in. As soon as the swollen tip of my dong was fully engulfed in my slutty secretary’s hot meaty thigh I came cataclysmically.
“I didn’t actually cut myself shaving, I did it on purpose to get your attention,” Jodi later confessed.
The next morning Jodi says she’s pregnant. She shows me a big meaty thigh, yesterday’s laceration is completely gone, and a big bloated blister squats in its place. A little wormy thing is visible squirming beneath her orange skin.
"Wanna touch it?" she asks.
Vomit bubbles up the back of my throat.
"My daddy knows," Jodi says. "He's got a shotgun and he's gonna tan yer hide if you don't marry me."


- - -
Joshua Dobson likes to make his own fun.

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Author: Joshua Dobson

Contributor: NaughTee

- -
He pushed me
to...
a window
quietly stand
face my reflection
strip clothes
watch myself
uncamouflage
embrace beauty
touch flesh
revel

He pushed me
to...
want more
challenge more
be liberated
brazen
demanding
unashamed
surrender my fear
relinquish control
try

He pushed me
to...
reveal yearnings
fuel my temptations
quench thirst
not question
feel not think
respond
seek fulfillment
rejoice not regret
permit myself

He pushed me
to...
push back
brace against window
straddle thighs
bury his cock
thrust wildly
moan
scream
claw his back
orgasm

He pushed me
to...
live
forget reality
break the rules
meet secretly
ignore any voyeurs
fuck at work
after hours rendezvous
become greedy
need it again


- - -
I am published in various anthologies and online, including The Erotic Woman, Haiku Journal, Epiphany magazine, and others. My first book was released in 2006 with Publish America. I have conducted poetry seminars for kids. I reside in New Jersey with my husband and crazy cat.

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Author: NaughTee

Contributor: Dirky Henkel

- -
James took her out the bonnet and undid the tape from her mouth. She winced then spat and screamed, even though it was useless in this desolation. But he wouldn't have it, so he responded with a playful smack to her jaw.
“Shut the fuck up, bitch,” James told her, smacking a bristly kiss on Sandra's forehead. He forced her up onto the porch and shoved her through the door of his old Piney Woods farmhouse, and Sandra saw the barricaded windows, the unfurbished void making up the inside, the passage to his bedroom drowned in fresh concrete. The door shut and the key turned. Then they were in darkness.
“Hope you don't take the tying up thing personally.” James fed a candle wick. A pair of flickers rollicked in the navy hue of his sunglasses. She was taken aback for a second, seeing that monster's face of tattoos and scars arise from the shadows.
“Think about what you're doing,” she said. “Please.”
“I've thought long and hard, darling. This is for your own good, God's plan for us.”
“You're delusional.”
“Not this time. I promise you, you'll believe. Tonight it begins: three days of hell, as prophesied. In here, you'll have a chance at life after the event. Maybe you should've paid attention before.”
“I'm sorry. I can't fucking remember because you were banging me about so much, fucking asshole. Fuck you--”
“No, darling, fuck you. Forgot what it was like between us? Ain't you my maiden no more, forever avowed?” James snagged her hips toward his, gently swaying in a mock dance, and her squirming was useless against his might. “Damn, you're still as hot as you were in your younger days, ain't ya? Remember our song? If I made you feel second best, I'm sorry I was blind. You were always on my mind.”
“They should've kept you behind bars, you son of a bitch.”
“Yeah, but then I wouldn't be able to satisfy you like old times, huh?”
His finger went under her skirt, slid into her panties, and he tickled her clitoris.
“Fucking stop,” she said.
“But I'm taking care of you, hon.”
She hesitated, then burst out, “The sheriff's coming.”
And so he let go. “Tell me you're fooling.”
“Before you grabbed my cell, I alerted them, okay? They're on their way.”
James threw her to the dust.
“Fuck you,” she retorted.
Silently, he culled thought and scanned her cellphone for confirmation, and shook his head in disappointment. “Shouldn't have done that, woman.”
“What are you going to do? Beat me up again? Release me and it'll be over, James, I swear. I'll drop this, nullify the court order, anything you want. Just let me go.”
James clamped her face, meeting hazel beads made more frantic by the snap of the candle's flame. “This is how you thank me? I'm saving your life from humanity's inevitable harvest, pouring out my heart, and you call those pigs? Right now I should be treating you like the backstabber you are.”
She kicked his knee from the ground, but it dealt no damage he was willing to express. Instead, he taped her mouth again. “I'm not sure I know you anymore,” he said, “but I always tried to treat you right.”
The urgent rap at the front door came almost instantly, stealing his smile. By the window, he unscrewed the planks and clocked a double-barrel that seemingly came from nowhere. “Look at what you did, Sandra. Now fathers and husbands will have to die on my land.”
The instant daylight rendered Sandra's eyes askance, and illumed the room's contents: rows of crates and ammunition packed against the walls, a survivor's paradise.
James poked his weapon through and shouted, “First and last warning. Get off my porch and never come here again.”
“Code 30. Need assistance,” a voice communicated. “Law enforcement, sir. Put the gun down.”
James shouted, “Take your pistol out, I'll shoot you right where you stand, hear? You're never taking me in.” His next action was instinctive--he clicked the trigger.
Sandra temporarily lost hearing, and could see nothing beyond the filling smoke, until James fell off-kilter out the smog. She assumed it was the shotgun's power which had unseated his frailty; yet he'd been wounded, his glasses sunder. A crimson web was forming on the wooden floor, swift expelling from his chest. Right then, he was still enough that she saw her opportunity. The open window drew her to a cautious stand, teasing safety. But then she sank creeping by his body; her ex wasn't dead yet, budging from his momentary outage. Inside, she cursed. Yet she caught sight of something else, under her sole. She quickly slid it into her corner, and returned.
James recovered. “Fucker got me.”
Her fingers married the edge of the shard. She began incisions, tuning into the rope like a surgeon prying for an artery.
“Wish you could've trusted me, hon,” he started.
She was certain the liquid dripping into her palm was blood, but didn't care.
“How do I make anyone believe what I'm saying? I wouldn't have done this if I wasn't so sure about it.” Then he raised his voice, “Understand, woman?”
But she wasn't really listening.

The sirens came.
“James McBride,” a loudspeaker blared, “surrender your arms and come out with your hands up.”
James was jolted from his momentary nap. He challenged them, “Every one of you government heathens will rot. If only you knew what I knew, boys. Hell's a coming.”
Bullets bit the surroundings and set the roof to rain, right before he could flaunt further courage. He slumped to cover, sat where he was in a humored naivety. Stirring ever closer, footsteps. He got up, dragged a cupboard toward the window, and the interior was dark once more.
“Never forget that I did this for you,” he whispered to Sandra's innocent front. He crept up to her with his candle light. “All I wanted was for us to be together.”
There was a bang at the door. And another.
James tapped the gun, showed her a pair of rounds, “One for you, one for me, huh?”
She shook her head.
“Don't worry, hon, there's a special place in heaven for us. Tell me you love me,” he said, peeling off the tape.
“Sure...honey,” she assured him. “Just like...just like it used to be.”
“I knew you'd finally make sense.” James lit up.
The gun came by her jaw.
“James, wait,” she insisted.
“We have to do this now, hon.”
The door began to splinter.
“Truth is,” she said as her hands separated, “you mean nothing to me.”
She stuck the shard into his neck, and stuck it in over and over until the gurgles were over.


Sandra watched his carcass being stretchered out, his throat a smile of death. It was as if his eyes still hadn't quit that insane love. They were on her. She turned away to the first of the moon and clung dearly to a gratis blanket.
“Ma'am,” Detective Sandton startled her. “Hope you're comfortable? I can't imagine what you've been through, Miss...”
“Brown,” she replied.
“Miss Brown, my apologies, but we'll need you at the station for a bit of questioning. You might be there a while, 'till we have your word and we know every detail of what went on back there. Are you fine with that, ma'am?”
“Yes, I--”
She stopped, distracted.
“I--”
Something was playing in the rear view mirror. She blinked to make sure she wasn't dreaming.
“Are you seeing this?” she asked Sandton, who looked up, then at her, before entering an awed hush.
“Close the door,” he said.
She did as she was told, and rolled up the windows. She saw the things in the sky descending still, and the more that could be discerned of the specks, the less they alluded to being anything she was familiar with. Suddenly, there was no explosion. The entire car tremored, then a viscuous substance came slithering down the windows. There was green everywhere. On the detective. The other officers. They were doused in it. Motionless, like dolls in a display cabinet. Then they were moving, walking her way, and she saw James--dead James McBride--raise and join them.
At the windows, they scratched to get in.
“You were always on my mind, Sandra.”


- - -
Dirky Henkel is an unwanted child originally from Berlin, Germany, currently residing in Rehburger Moor. Follow her on Twitter @DirkyHenkel.

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Author: Dirky Henkel

Contributor: Dirky Henkel

- -
It was Abigail's turn to chop wood, so she left noting the sun's wilt, how glad she was to be far from contact, deep in the solitude of the Grunewald forest. Just us. I blew her a kiss in agreement and resumed my chores. Minutes later, while scrubbing soot from a bucket of dishes, I peered out the window. She was gone from her assigned tree stump. To my left, a shadow grew by the doorway. Then I saw her return, and she was different, more haggard than usual. Something was wrong.
“Abigail?” I called.
She didn't respond. She was swaying against the daylight, eerily stilled, a ragdoll with an axe. I heard her whelp. It was an acknowledgment of her weakness. Just in time, I caught her. We convulsed to the dust. The whiteness of her frock was disappearing behind a crimson plague. Where her neck was, there was a grotesque smile, and I looked at her more angrily than I should've; she was vulnerable, useless like an old dog, and we didn't need this.
“How did this happen, Abigail?”
She shook her head, almost in denial. I heard her wheezing delirium, what sounded like chortling, and judged she was losing air faster than she could keep in. I pressed down on her wound, and she yowled so loud the noise made me wince and unfastened what mettle I had remaining. It was obvious I was burbling at that point even though I couldn't stand her seeing it. My tears fed her lips, that pout once tasted, reminiscent of sweet scarlet roses. Now they were more akin to the color of her essence. By that gape wide enough to stick a finger into, I knotted a bandage, then looped it around again because it wasn't tight enough. Then I still wasn't certain; medical was her thing, not mine. I fumbled, frantic.
“Hold it tight,” I commanded. She did so, and the stifled blood webbed around her hands. I looked down, toward my shirt--it was drenched, too. The sight set me to freeze, to be deaf to the increasing grunts not of this vicinity. Abigail weakly tugged me by the collar, and I blinked away the film, the inner silence. She pointed urgently, handed me the axe. I traced her finger which was hardly straight, saw the dead thing's haunt by our hung clothes outside, by the laundry line. It was just lumbering about at first, but steadily nearing in a brooding anti-kinesthesia. A child, now wallowing in its own flesh-stripped decay--one of them, I knew without a doubt. One of the dead.
I clamped Abigail's cheeks, assured her, “It'll be fine,” and trampled the autumn leaves, trailed the path of brown blotches. My fingers were slippery around the handle, yet I had something lit inside. I saw the thing meet my challenge, hissing at me in fascination. It was half my size, frenetic and befitting of its kind's reputation. I smelled the sulfur ills of its rot, felt the power of its guttural primordiality. I had never been this close to one.
When it lunged forward next, I came apart. With my pulse vibrating in my ears, a sultriness ran down my legs. Its talons, reaching out, came so close I felt the thing's rage, its very aura. But somehow, I managed to swing. It was a jolt, instinctive like my banshee scream. I heard the crack, the sundering of its head, felt the wildly-dispersed splinters. Defeated, it crashed to the grass, and I was ready for more, my adrenaline stirred. I scoured the surroundings, discovered nothing but undeterred nature, and turned back to the cabin. Abigail, jaundiced, was already dead, transforming. There was no time to mourn, but, dragging her out, I lost it. Several times I quit, only to restart with a daub of my cheeks. I chained her between a pair of trees. In her mouth, I stuffed a cloth, taped it shut, and then waited.
Her legs thrashed first. Eventually she came alive, frothing from behind her gag. She pulled at her chains. Again. Then one arm came separated to nullify the trap's purpose. However, I didn't budge, nor was there time to. Too long I'd stood there, too hopeful. This wasn't my love, not in kind, but she was there in appearance, and I fell for the trick. She clamped me in by my blush of locks, flaunted her teeth. And stopped. Our eyes locked, mine tested against her warm, rotting hazel. She was discerning, breathing in my heat, immersed in a different sort of hunger. I let her do what she wanted then. Atop my skull, there was a pressure, an animalistic grip--her hands, clenching, pushing inward.
“Please don't,” I murmured.
Incredibly, she listened, and instead, her hand traced downward, measuring my form. She brushed the old carress of my shoulder; cupped the soft curvature of my breast; palmed my survivor's emaciation; and entered up my skirt, against the flare of my lower lips.
I gasped.
“Abigail...” My breath departed. I held onto her wrist, and it was such a forceful, unrelenting embrace. And, impossibly, it was exacting the forbidden. She began rubbing me, and what escaped my tongue may have alluded to pain, but it wasn't. It felt as though I was having a seizure delivered from God, and it was rising ever more from within my sacred apex. Her fingers encircled, prodded, slapped against my extremity, and I was powerless against my own climax. There was an explosion of memories so vivid of her lust and previous explorations, and it was eternal during what were mere seconds. It was done. I was wet, and I could barely maintain poise. I tried to retreat, accosting her feral innocence, but she wouldn't let go, and then she managed to free herself. I tried to run. It was too late. She had me. I felt her fingernails break the skin on my neck, and I passed out.

When I awoke, impulse had taken over. But somehow, I was still self-aware. We were together again, just Abigail and I. She was feeding me the leg of a deer carcass, insisting that I join her feast. We painted red on each other in a canvas of sex. Love beyond death.


- - -
Dirky Henkel is an unwanted child originally from Berlin, Germany, currently residing in Rehburger Moor. Follow her on Twitter @DirkyHenkel.

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Author: Dirky Henkel

Contributor: Dirky Henkel

- -
The passing fields along the Umbiquothi highway were now filled with collections of rubbish. Fires were dying out on meadows now more deathly black than green.
“It used to be beautiful,” Cammy remarked on the rot. She was leaning against the passenger window. Her left cheek was orange from the Kenyan sun, her blush of hair falling like a waterfall over a traditional caftan. She nudged John back to reality, and he released his grip on her hand, having forgotten that the ring of his finger was pressing down.
“Remember when they used to plant blueberries here, the kids who'd come play?”
“Times have changed,” he said. “In a bad way.”
“Who did this?”
“Daily Nairobi say Al-Shabaab,” their driver said, butting in. “So many killed yesterday. Senseless violence. That's Kenya. I have to say, you're brave. However...”
“Hm?”
“Maybe foolish for white people.” And he laughed. “I shouldn't speak. Not to offend...”
She clicked her tongue, wound up from her rest. “Good gracious. Fools for trying to help the poor?”
“Coming from rich land, you have little regard for yourselves. I'd be worried in your shoes.”
“Everyone needs an angel, right? I'm sure you'll agree there's too few angels,” John said.
“Well, God bless you.” Thereafter, the driver kept quiet, checking the meter as the fields came to an end. Hlongo rounded a corner into the village of Nyang'oma Kogela, an assembly of shacks rising upon a hill and from which smoke was trailing into the skies to manifest an ebbing mirage. Hlongo braked right at the beginning of the main road, half a kilometer from their destination, and was visibly frantic, tracking the surroundings carefully.
“If I go further, I die,” he said, sweating from fear rather than the heat. “They don't like my kind here. Not Masaai. Are you sure you want to do this, boss? Very dangerous.”
John dismissed him. “Give us ten minutes?”
“Be safe.”
In the open, the weather was cooler, her omen feeling stronger. She rejoined hands with him.
“I'm scared,” she said.
“I know.” John pried her off so he could open the bonnet. “It's just a drop-off. Like it always is. It'll be fine, okay?”
“This is different,” she wanted to say, but she obliged him, taking her share of the aid. As they left the cab further behind, she turned one last time, noting the driver's incessant gawking. Watching the shacks lining each side, she kept expecting heads to peek out. On the surface, the place appeared deserted. “Something isn't right.”
“I'm here with you.” John bumped her playfully, got an appeasing smile in return.
The civic hall was in view, the source of the smoke. Its walls were vandalised, the door off its hinges. The interior, they saw, was a charred ruin. It took them a minute, then, to figure out what those coal shapes were, what that smell was alluding to. Big shapes. Small shapes. Adults and children. Bodies.
Acid rose up her throat. John caught her as she half fainted, and dragged her off, back to the cab that was now hooting. Once more it blared, and John didn't understand. Then it was too late. Shadows coalesced on the ground, corresponding with urgent footsteps. They were being surrounded. Men, plainly dressed enough to appear harmless, were making cutthroat gestures around them, encircling like vultures. They stared on coldly, uncovered machetes stained with old blood, the tips of the blades gleaming.
John reasoned, stammered, “Dr Shepherd from London. Do you remember? United Nations?”
They spat in defiance. John felt behind him. Cammy was still there. Her hand, trembling, slippery, was hard for John to grasp. When he got it, he pulled, attempted to leave through the crowd by force. Only, they wouldn't let him. They pushed him back, struck him in the head twice, and he went to his stomach. His nose was shattered. But he could still smell the ensuing flames, hear Cammy's fighting screams that ceased after a few resonant smacks. As he struggled, he realized someone was standing on his back, keeping him floored. Soon a cloth of vinegar was crammed into his mouth. Fingers pinched his face, made him watch. Right next to him, there she was, her eyeliner streaming down her ears. The other men were disrobing her on the dirt, ripping off her undergarments, until she was bare all over. One man entered through her open legs and thrust as violently as he could; another undid his pants, slipped his penis in orally; and the others took turns, and it went on for eternity. When they were done, they drenched her with petrol. The sound of the crackling fires and her final squeals overencumbered his ears, until, somehow, he was able to fade off.

“Ten years is a long time. Do you feel that you can ever move on, as a human being?” said his psychologist.
“What's human, Doc? What is that fucking concept?” John got up from the couch, observed the back of his hands, the skin indentation where the ring used to be, the boils that never quite healed. “We live in a meaningless universe.”
“What does that mean to you?”
“Actions are meaningless.”
“So you can accept what's done has no bearing? Is that what you're saying?”
“I'm saying I'm thankful for my influence. Gets me places.” John grinned, and left.

He was slightly off-schedule, turning on the television midway through the BBC News broadcast.
“...hybrid flu breakout in Kenya,” the reporter continued. “Hundreds of thousands have been confirmed dead, and the country has been quarantined off...”
John sipped the rest of his wine, dancing his hands to The Blue Danube playing in the background.


- - -
Dirky Henkel is an unwanted child originally from Berlin, Germany, currently residing in Rehburger Moor. Follow her on Twitter @DirkyHenkel.

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Author: Dirky Henkel

Contributor: Dirky Henkel

- -
Standing by the window, Odessa scratches that itch which never stops. This one is new, two days old. Her vagina's growing more swollen, turning light blue like her eyes, her pubic hair falling out in lumps. Every now and then she can see her vaginal walls move. And she knows it's a virus inside of her, another unwanted Hypherian baby, sucking its way into her womb as though there aren't enough of them leeching the planet. That's what shit like her is used for these days, breeding. She killed the first little fucker, because she found out. Giving birth to their young is suicide. They say you dissolve like acid. Rumours travel fast, even here in Block A329, a hundred floors up. There's comfort in complacency, especially when you're being fed pills.
The haze from the outside creeps through the grille and makes her face look like a checkerboard of fire orange. There's no day or night, no sense of time. She wonders what's beyond those dark clouds permanently casting shadows on the city that used to be, what those fast-moving, neon lights are below, how much longer those airborne star machines, with their protracting claws and flickering beacons waking her up mid-sleep with their noises, will be demolishing all the surrounding buildings. Everything's going, being replaced, yet nothing's really changing.
It's mostly lonely but she's used to it, these four walls of prison hell. She's seen much, enough. Sometimes she gets visits from that scaly bastard, Warden Ainu, whose only services are meals and abortions, the latter of which is to his gain, running a foetus-selling business on the black market which thrives right at home. Warden's not much different from the prisoners he watches, just male, old, one of the last surviving of his gender. Like them, his freedom's severely restricted, confined to the block. And he's not the first warden. Without him, they'd be dead. Without them, he'd be starving. Trust is mutual.
Something slides underneath the padlocked door, what she was waiting for. A piece of paper.
“Ready?” it reads. “Need the protein. Got your solution.”
She dips a stick in a bucket of faeces, scribbles on the paper, “Y,” and sends her message.
There's a buzz. The door clunks open, and the warden sneaks in with his briefcase of tools and motions for her to lie down. She does so, setting her legs wide apart, pulling up her johnny gown of brown blotches. She's then bare, being poked and prodded in inspection. It hurts when he feels that bump above her scarred clitoris, even more when he inserts a pair of pliers inside to fish for the parasite. But she knows it must be done. Her face compresses. She bites her lip. Her eyes roll back. She screams in her mind, but not from her mouth. She hasn't had her tongue since she was two. No human does. The cold, invading steel seems like it's about to puncture her intestines, inciting a need to urinate. Liquid runs down the back of her legs. It's not her essence. The thing's already out, being pinched between the pliers, wriggling its last. It resembles a glowing tapeworm. That's what they look like in the early stages. Warden Ainu throws it into a jar with formaldehyde, and leaves. Odessa has her survival.

Ten days since the abortion. The meal compartment in the door opens. She holds the tray just long enough to get a look, trying to spot the odd change, and sees. There's another warden. Ainu's gone. This one is more anemic, corpselike, torn from reality. Different. She tries to meet his eyes to communicate, but he shuts her off. She slowly sinks on the bed, lost of appetite.

From under her blanket, she hears the door open and close. She doesn't open her eyes. She can hear it cooing, tracing the ground with those viscuous tentacles, coming nearer. The blanket leaves her side. Her gown gets torn, and her body goes bouncing onto the concrete floor. She loses consciousness, but not before she feels the Hypherian thrust inside.

She's still bleeding below, that throb between her thighs ceaseless, her entire gown damp. She gets up in time and limps over for another serving, hearing those wheels squeak in the passage. As the tray gets handed through, she snags the warden by the tie. Suddenly, an alarm goes off, and she backs off ruefully, staring at the door, waiting. In enters a droid that shoots a canister of gas. It makes her sleep.

It's getting bad, the itch, really bad. Those fucks have her good this time. She can't move. She's not sure what they gave her, why they keep coming in, but she knows it's getting worse. She keeps fading in and out. The thing inside isn't in her vagina anymore. Looking down, she notices how her stomach is inflating.

They're standing around, watching her like this is some kind of sick show. How many days has it been? All she can see is their silhouettes, and all she can do is turn her head, wring silly smiles. The pills make her want to laugh. They overdid the dosage. She realizes why. It's happening. The veins on her forehead tense. There's an eruption in her abdomen, a sensation of needles plunging outward, and then she can finally scream even though it sounds more like a deep grunt. The dome of her stomach pops, sending blood on her face, everywhere. The thing's head rears from her organs. It's a wet, hairy ball, like a spider as big as a dog, and it scampers away to join its family. Odessa's skin is burning, disintegrating, and she can see the bones in her fingers. The light from the window isn't orange anymore.


- - -
Dirky Henkel writes from Berlin, Germany. Follow her on Twitter at @DirkyHenkel.

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Author: Dirky Henkel

Contributor: Catfish McDaris

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I slash his throat and hands with my machete, as the scream escapes, I cut it into thin slices and deal them like a deck of tarot cards, then I wake up. Some nights it’s playing chess with Elvis and I wake before I checkmate the king. Or I’m a phrenologist and feeling the lumps on Hitler’s head before shoving a grenade in his mouth. Sometimes the night gathers me up in its arms and I listen to the mermaids whisper and laugh. Or the continuous sex of knocking boots with beautiful twin sisters, they decide to treat me down and doggie. They make me a nasty sandwich, by wiping their ass on bread, spitting on the cheese, blowing boogers in the mustard, jerking out some pubes for the lettuce and slicing dog doo for the main ingredient and covering it with salsa. It’s not as bad as it sounds. They let me shave their armpits and vaginas and lick them baldy clean. Then I take them to Benihaha’s Jap Café, this Asian dude slaps steak and onions on a hot grill and fashions the pile into a tiny steamboat and manipulates it across the heated surface, making it puff smoke rings. He then divides it and flips it into our bowls with rice in soy sauce and does some tricks with chicken and shrimp. Tossing the salt and pepper shakers up in the air and catching them on top his chef’s hat. I go to the can and come back and he’s dropped down on my girls, playing Ring Around Tokyo Rosie. When he gives me the bill, I need an ambulance and an armored car. I just wish I could mellow out and have some smooth dreams again.


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Catfish McDaris’ most infamous chapbook is Prying with Jack Micheline and Charles Bukowski. His best reading was in Paris at the Shakespeare and Co. Bookstore. Catfish McDaris Mcdar3@aol.com

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Author: Catfish McDaris

Contributor: Craig Podmore

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After walking the isolated, rural country road I finally come across an idyllic cottage. I spray my perfume, all over my neck, my wrists and my exposed cleavage. I knock on the door. A male dwarf answers; he thoroughly scans my legs, all the way up, past my thighs to my breasts and then finally my face. Not a word is muttered as I enter the cottage. Inside there’s a fire and two naked women, both wearing amputated pigs’ snouts that crudely deform their pretty faces. The perfume stings my skin as the salt of my sweat reacts. The heat is immense.

I have no recollection of getting here...

“Welcome, welcome! My beautiful flower is here.” The director greets me with his absurd sentiment.
“Do you have the key?” He asks. An overwhelming confusion envelops me.
“A key? I’m sorry…I…”
“Don’t worry, princess…” He claps, smiling intensely, almost unnervingly. The dwarf man claps too but the two naked women stand with a haunting stoicism. The fire is nearly as big as the room itself; it’s a blue and green flame and not a normal colour.

“This is Grieg, he’s the cameraman for the shoot.” Grieg, an obvious man of sleaze, his grin stretches to a disturbing point, his neck has burn marks – “it’s just a love bite, don’t worry about it.” They both laugh; as Grieg knew I was staring at his inflamed scars. The feeling of inadequacy is unbearable; I could not comfort nor contain myself at all. The dwarf approaches me with a disturbing grimace: “is your cunt wet yet?”

I look at the director and he just continues to laugh but suddenly stops, almost robotic-like, he takes a knife out of his pocket, I drop my handbag, Grieg starts shooting, the director starts to smile again with a more inhuman jest, he penetrates the knife into himself, such screams, such woe, such pain as he slices the knife up from his abdomen to the top of his chest, he stretches the wound open, blood spits onto my make-up and expensive lipstick, I quickly look at the two naked women and still they stand inanimately, the dwarf however is dead on the floor, headless; his head smoulders in the fire, the director’s self-autopsy is at a near completion as his ribs, sinew, guts and bone exhibit explicitly in front of me, shockingly still, in the darkness of his very flesh, something moves, something alive comes forward, it has a face, I cover my mouth as vomit protrudes slowly, I recognise the face, it is my father's.

I wake up in the back of a limo as if an electric shock had passed through me. A slight disorientation, a profound irritation overcomes me, a complication of realisation relating to whether I just witnessed the unnerving events that I had experienced back in that ghastly cabin. I notice a glass of champagne, half full, lipstick-smeared glass (my colour); my head is pounding, my mouth unbelievably dry and my vision doubles as one tries to look at things close up. The limo stops. The driver announces my arrival, he gets out of the car and walks round to the door on my side, he opens it with a gentlemanly charm, I did expect an abundance of flash photography bruising the corneas of my eyes, instead, the welcome is of a pure silence. A figure waits in the doorway of a funeral home, it is my mother; I notice that her dress is soaking in blood, so thorough that the cotton of the dress has solidified. The blood derives from her left breast, where her heart resides. She does not greet me with exuberance but with a haunting calm, she mumbles apologies to me with an illustrated torture that resounds throughout my soul and skin. Again, I sweat; my perfume no longer lingers of sweetness but something more death-like. I look back to see if the limo was still there but it has disappeared without a trace, I didn’t hear the engine at all for my mother’s apologies. I look back towards my mother and no longer does she stand in the doorway. I walk into the funeral home, a thick blackness swarms the inside and I hear constant whispers inviting me into the building, I’m somewhat apprehensive but some unconscious notion drives me to walk inside.

A spotlight hits me from a beyond no soul knew existed. It blinds me, I put my hand up to see if I can gain a vision for anything ahead of me but all I can make out is a catwalk-like stage. From within the dark, I start to her voice resonating, steadily progressing louder and chanting my name:

“Anna, Anna, Anna…”

Such a disturbing engagement, I step back due to trepidation and fear until a soft light appears at the end of the stage. A young girl playing with her skipping rope, she does not seem of this age, the delicate pigtail hair and the rich, floral dress flows as she jumps, her movements postponed somewhat, as if she’s in a slower motion than our dimension of actual time. She seems so real and so…familiar. I start to walk towards her in a steady speed and the voices still carry on chanting my name. As I begin to walk, a dead rose is thrown in front of me. I step forward furthermore and to my horror, a human kidney is thrown before me, I shake and stumble in a catharsis so profound. No longer do I want to look back, no longer do I want to see forward. Although, the young girl continues to skip and play in her own little heaven ahead, I pull myself together and step over the grotesque organ. More steps I take and blood starts to flicker onto my face, I vomit onto the stage with such violence. The chanting abruptly stops, I look unto the darkness, nothing to be seen but the glare of the spotlight, again I stand straight and look ahead. The girl still skips. Voices appear again although this time, it is a choir of incoherent ululations, it makes me look around in an erratic fashion and never before have I witnessed such madness. I walk, faster now, towards the girl, more intestines, hearts, bones, fragments of brain, amputated genitals, prosthetic limbs, dildos, pictures of murder victims that I could recognise, my pace growing and growing and more macabre offerings land in my path.

Finally I approach the girl, she stops skipping, with her back to me she slowly turns around and faces me only to reveal that she is a younger me, she smiles and then places her index finger before her lips; ‘shhhh…’ She disappears, I am frantic as I begin to shout for her, the invisible beings within the cold dark start to laugh and applaud such a delusion.

“Anna. Turn around my sweet petal.”

The deep voice bellows from behind my back, the familiar voice cuts me in two. I fear that it is my father. I turn with an immense apprehension; my guts turn into a sour grave, as it is indeed my father. I nearly fall onto my behind as he stands with a newborn baby girl in his arms along with a revolver pointing to her skull in his right hand. She screams, the poor girl, such hullaballoo, I can’t look him in the eyes; the dark voids of his homicidal menace haunt me.

“The fact that she isn’t screaming because of the sight of the gun but because of something more mundane, like hunger or flatulence, it illustrates to me how stupid we all are, without the wisdom of the elders we’re nothing but flesh…existing.”

He pulls the trigger; the blast, the rapid fire, it’s burning chamber smokes as the innocent’s blood exits the frame of its little head. The audience is revealed; every single person is me, an exact mirror of, laughing and pointing at me, photographers jump onto the stage, the bulbs flashing like machine guns, Polaroid pictures of my bloodied face hit the floor amidst the confetti of flesh and sinew, the blood of me, newborn, stains my eyelids, forehead and cheeks, I feel a gnawing coming from the genital area, a subtle pinch, I guide my hands between my legs and I nervously feel a residue. My fingers reveal specks of menstruation, now I can see…


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Author: Craig Podmore

Contributor: Will Lawrence

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She didn’t know what was wrong with her.

Was she unstable?

Was she a pervert?

Could this be a gateway fetish to something more bizarre, like S&M, or licking a man’s anus?

Her boyfriend left her three weeks ago this Thursday.

It was Tuesday.

And now she felt damaged, unworthy of another long-term suitor, because she would inevitably carry this peculiar desire over from one relationship to another, and so on and so on… until, she feared, word would spread, and every eye belonging to every man, woman, child, and animal she passed in her day-to-day life would be not only aware, but firmly fixated on her, for that one and only reason.

She would probably die alone. She couldn’t be more certain of that. She continuously told herself she was going to die alone, over and over, each and every day, and now she fully trusted the idea, firmly believing in her own ridiculous foresight.

She hid faceless in Internet chat rooms and on message boards, dating sites and personal ads, believing what she was doing was nothing more than research – a quest – for a potential husband, or at the very least a loving, caring, understanding life-long companion. But all they ever turned out to be were one-night stands, leaving her unfulfilled, but more than anything, embarrassed and ashamed of herself, while they would leave with yet another notch in their belts and a great little story to laugh about with their buddies over drinks. It didn’t take long for her to realize the safest bets were hooking up in parts of the city where she was unlikely to ever run in to her one-shot beaus again, and to start using “fake” names.

Thank God for old high school enemies.

But was this thing just a sickness that would continue to live on, an incurable disease?

Even after her eventual demise, was this something that would haunt her even beyond the grave? Would this be her legacy? She couldn’t help but return to that terrifying belief, that these partners – each one she had infected, even amidst their dim-witted, dullard exteriors – would grow old, have wives, children – families – and tell their son’s tales, during late nights when boundaries cannot be crossed, when nothing seems remotely right nor wrong, about that one revolting night in the history of their youth. And she would be the siren who’d got the best of them, led them astray, but nevertheless sent them along to reiterate the tale of the woman who couldn’t help but be turned on to hear her men fart during sex.


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I like to write stuff.

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Author: Will Lawrence

Contributor: Misti Rainwater-Lites

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She was quite the side dish, much creamier and more filling than potato salad or green bean casserole. No woman in her right mind wants to be meatloaf or turkey. That’s what wives are for.

“You’d rather see me dead than with another man. Wouldn’t you, baby?” she murmured, nesting naked in stained twisted sheets and not so fluffy pillows.
“Damned straight,” he said, tweaking her defiant left nipple.
The newest hot shit reality show blared from the television, which was surrounded by empty wine bottles and gay sex magazines. “Survivor Small Press Poet Island.” If the two surviving poets did not resort to cannibalism they would win a book deal with Simon and Schuster and a lifetime supply of peppermint flavored condoms. There was a catch. The surviving poets would not be allowed to brag about their victory at Facebook. The surviving poets would, in fact, have to deactivate their Facebook accounts. It was a kind of experiment. Would poetry books sell without Facebook? It was a gamble the producers were willing to take.

“I feel sorry for your wife. The meatloaf. The turkey. The lasagna so forlorn in the deep freeze,” the creamy and filling side dish said.
“Shush,” he said. He reached for the nearest bottle of moscato, took a swig.
“I talk too much, I know. Sorry, baby. But I don’t want to ever take your wife’s place. Just wanted to make that clear. I’m very happy with the way things are. You fuck me then write poems about me. We’re adhering to an ancient tradition.”
“Yup.”

They fucked and drank moscato until they passed out. It was kind of like a Bukowski poem but much deeper and more poignant. Outside the window a homeless wino screeched,”We’re being poisoned by this Disney princess syndrome! True love ain’t a mermaid cartoon!” A tourist from Texas with bad hair and worse ideas handed the wino a dollar. It made her feel altruistic and relevant. The sky spit down rain but the bars were open. The Texan walked inside a bar and ordered a Maker’s Mark, neat. No one in the world could mess that shit up.


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I like to drink beer and play with my vibrator.

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Author: Misti Rainwater-Lites