Contributor: Paul Tristram - - I was walking down by a stream today (Look it doesn’t fucking matter which stream it was, it was just a stream, alright!) When I decided to take myself a well earned rest upon a vacant wooden bench (Look it doesn’t fucking matter which side of the stream the vacant wooden bench was on, it was just a vacant wooden bench, alright!) So I sat there for awhile, just carelessly wishing that I had a hammer and a few dozen nails with me because I’ve given up smoking for eight days and every time that I stop still for more than a second my hands become possessed by something, I am serious they start break dancing and signalling to nothing and nobody, they start chopping invisible paper right there before my eyes, not in an exact straight line, in more of a slope? So the hammer and nails were for me to nail my bastard...

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Eric Hawthorn - - Nowhere in the world is our beloved art form more prevalent, or more vibrant, than in the great nation of Japan. Westerners take note: the Japanese are true innovators. Their particular advantage lies in the widespread use of animation, a medium whose exemption from the laws of reality remains less explored in the West. In “hentai”—that distinctly Japanese form of animation—we have the extreme close-up, the x-ray shot, forays into anthropomorphism and magical realism. And then there’s the archetypal Hentai Girl: neon hair, saucer eyes, dancing irises reflecting a minimum of three major light sources at any time. The Hentai Girl always possesses a near-metallic radiance (a shininess unmatched by the male characters, light reflection being a gender thing). Continuing this noble Japanese tradition, Pussycat...

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Author: Eric Hawthorn

Contributor: Paul Tristram - - I shall wait outside your home I will follow you in the street. If you let me have five minutes I’d tear off both of your feet. I’d run right home delighted and put them in a glass case. I’d invite around my friends but hire security just in case. Anybody gets any funny ideas and tries to steal my treasure. My beloved’s severed body parts would simply be my only pleasure. I have followed you for years waited for hours outside hotels. I gave my true love from afar my normal life I had to sell. But if I had your genius toes to kiss and hold to each night. I would cover up your shrine and masturbate with you held tight. - - - Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging...

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: J. E. Sifton - - I spent the night before last with her. We started at the cinema, then grabbed a drink, then another. Sitting close at the bar, my hand already in-between her legs, warm to my touch. Cabbing back to her place, convincing her to model for me was easier than I expected, kissing my neck as we stumbled in. I chose her outfit: shapely black leggings (who doesn't have a fetish for Lulu?) and a tight white 'beater. Positioning her on the bed, I began shooting with my appareil photo, slowly peeling away the layers. Beginning with her upturned ass, capturing the tattoo on her lower back atop the tiny grey thong. Her ass begs to be bit and licked and slapped hard. Her slender stomach is revealed as I slowly rolled up her white top. Hip bones are pronounced, forming a valley between two arched hills accentuating...

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Author: J. E. Sifton

Contributor: Paul Tristram - - I was up! I was tripping?!?! I had finally done it. Two hundred magic mushrooms. It was not funny like people had said even though I was laughing. There were no giant rats. I was not being chased by pink elephants. Huge Pac-men were not eating my feet. And there was absolutely no sign of nuns with piranha faces. It was just me laughing and crying all at the same time. I was with five other people but I felt totally alone. Just me and my ruptured personality. There was wave after wave of emotional fear. A dangerous intoxicating excitement. I was scared shitless but I was enjoying it. I started chewing the inside of my mouth, I bit too hard, it bled, it felt good. I took a drink from my cider bottle. I didn’t need the cider. I didn’t need fuck all! I was finally tripping. I had found a hidden question-less...

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Dusty Wallace - - It didn’t surprise me that the two little green men probed me, but I expected it to be with some sort of scientific tool. The long slimy green fingers did teach me one thing though, they’re cold-blooded. Very cold. My asshole was so frosty I barely noticed the smooth sounds of Lionel Richie. I’m not sure where it was coming from, didn’t see any speakers. No matter, even the velvety tones of “Say You, Say Me” couldn’t have warmed such a coldness. Earlier that night, 7pm to be exact (Leave it to Beaver had just ended), there was a knock at the door. I rose from my couch for the first time in hours with a yawn and a stretch. Both legs were tingly from a day of marathon masturbation so I shook them out one at a time and started for the door. Before I made it halfway there was a huge flash. I knew it couldn’t...

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Author: Dusty Wallace

Contributor: Paul Tristram - - With head between her legs I looked up the barrel of love. Urged on by tender whispers I gave my tongue a shove. A button, soft and unsocial to anyone’s pleasure but she. Yet, I worked on regardless between those rigid knees. Pubic hair burns the tongue she always takes her time. But hey, I am crotch happy next she is down on mine. - - - Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, y...

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Sam Bernhofer - - The police would later say that my dorm had the most interesting arrangement of furniture they’ve ever seen. The bed was held up 5 feet high purely from being wedged between the walls perpendicularly. It was a fucking drawbridge that took me 3 hours of scraping and complaints from the dorms next door to make that way, and I hated it. Underneath drawbridge was a desk, laptop, schoolwork covered in piss, Vitamin Water bottles full of piss, several cum rags, a shotgun I had purchased when I turned 18 in a guitar case, and some hair I had twisted and pulled out of my head. I had a girl come over occasionally, you know. Her lungs were dirty brown underneath rotten yellow teeth and a smelly white tongue. All she gave a shit about was the fucking drawbridge bed. I raised a few hairs with my hand to let...

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Author: Sam Bernhofer

Contributor: Sam Bernhofer - - Dieter fucked his hand while his girlfriend Andrea was in class. Three years ago, Dieter and Stephanie broke up. Two weeks after that, Dieter was in a relationship with Andrea. “It’s not official until you change your relationship status on Facebook.” Andrea told Dieter. He used shaving cream. He rushed. He thought of nothing really. Maybe it was the memory of Stephanie, five months earlier, changing in front of him so confidently only minutes after seeing him for the first time in two years that got it done. Six months earlier while Dieter was still with Andrea, he had sent Stephanie an anagrammed poem about her and she said “Keep telling me.” Stephanie was the catalyst Dieter needed to leave Andrea, “For good this time.” “When are you coming to see me…” she said. He went. He ruined Andrea. He drove to...

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Author: Sam Bernhofer

Contributor: Paul Tristram - - Pretty paper parcels All wrapped up tight. Containing powder wings To set my mind in flight. Releasing all the stress I’m not invisible tonight. Take a lick, take a dip There’s plenty, it’s alright. Sleep is for the straight Tonight I’m on a different ride. Sorted by an hippy In the pub outside. Rushes come like waves Sensational mental tides. Speech racing like a roller coaster Consciousness ninety miles wide. I’m surfin’ mirrors Once again, here I go. I’m surfin’ mirrors Smiling, shovelling snow. I’m surfin’ mirrors Got that white line fever. I’m surfin’ mirrors With a razorblade thin cleaver. Rolling up banknotes White luminous dust. Line ‘em up, line ‘em up Fuel this junkie lust. - - - Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around...

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Author: Paul Tristram