Eaters of the Dead
Somewhere someone is eating horses. I smile. It’s been a week since I tracked down my last mule. The freezer’s full. End up tossing most of it to the dogs. A nice man knocked on my door. I gave him a popsicle and half the back right leg. I wish more mice people knocked on my door. I don’t want to sit in front of the stove all winter eating mule bones like my father. I disgust most people. They say, “But we’ve put horses in space.” I laugh and remind them we put chickens in space too. I leave while their face scrunches and they try to remember what mission I was talking about.
My mother called a few days ago and asked if I wanted to come over for dinner. I made an excuse. She sighed. She realized I was still eating horses. Before she hung up she said, “Please just don’t start eating humans.” I blushed remembering the previous Halloween and hung up.
Some people sympathize with me. They call it a phase. I appreciate their support and thank them while I throw a grenade into pasture of horses. Most of them are smart and run, but I blow off the back legs of one and am able to drag it back to my condominium. I make sure to bag it first. My condominium is run down and in a bad neighborhood. People are always dragging things back to their apartment in trash bags. Everyone knows not to ask questions.
At my high school reunion it got out I was eating horses. Some people ignored me. Many avoided the subject and asked about my mother. Finally, the girl I took to prom came up to me and said, “So, I heard you’re sodomizing horses.” I winked and she laughed. I took her back to my condominium in a trash bag. When I let her out she punched me in the arm. I winked again and she laughed. I was starting to get the hang of it. She asked if I had anything to drink. I couldn’t remember and told her to check the fridge while I changed. She ran out screaming. I winked but she didn’t come back. I forgot about the horse’s head next to the milk. Usually, I throw them away, but I tend to hold onto them for a few weeks in case I think of anything to do with them.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Friday, May 15, 2009
Monthly Service, by Eric Balaz
Paying the Phone Company
I was walking down the street when you stabbed me. Not once, or twice, but stabbed me retroactively and for future times when I may or may not be walking down your street. Well you picked up my blood like you needed some, but I could tell you didn't from your giant veins.
Paying the Gas Company
I was enjoying this blanket when I froze to death. But I didn't die. I soon will though. Then maybe you will get what you want.
Paying the Electric Company
I invited you over. But I didn't want you there. I was just told you had to be there. You entered my house and beat me with a wire. I felt that was rude. I became unconscious. You stole all my light.
Paying My Tuition
I was sitting in class when you with your suit fancily kicked the shit out of me. I wasn't angry, I wasn't even slightly sad. I even thanked you for giving me a reason to work the rest of my life.
Paying for Admittance into Heaven
I sat on a bench when a plate was passed around. I ate its contents and everyone was mad, they must have been hungry also. I agree I was acting like a piece of shit. So I said I was Jesus. Everyone laughed. I left them behind.
I was walking down the street when you stabbed me. Not once, or twice, but stabbed me retroactively and for future times when I may or may not be walking down your street. Well you picked up my blood like you needed some, but I could tell you didn't from your giant veins.
Paying the Gas Company
I was enjoying this blanket when I froze to death. But I didn't die. I soon will though. Then maybe you will get what you want.
Paying the Electric Company
I invited you over. But I didn't want you there. I was just told you had to be there. You entered my house and beat me with a wire. I felt that was rude. I became unconscious. You stole all my light.
Paying My Tuition
I was sitting in class when you with your suit fancily kicked the shit out of me. I wasn't angry, I wasn't even slightly sad. I even thanked you for giving me a reason to work the rest of my life.
Paying for Admittance into Heaven
I sat on a bench when a plate was passed around. I ate its contents and everyone was mad, they must have been hungry also. I agree I was acting like a piece of shit. So I said I was Jesus. Everyone laughed. I left them behind.
Three Poems by wiredwriter
sharp
cutting my lip
on the edge
of the lid i
realize nothing
matters more
than blood
vulva
the door opened and he came in
opened the fridge doors
thought of her
she was on the road
business
he grabbed a beer
the tv didn't work
he couldn't watch the news
it was snowing
and she was gone
body
the body died
in a corner
it sulked as it
died and it
told everyone
of its wishes
as it lost
its life
cutting my lip
on the edge
of the lid i
realize nothing
matters more
than blood
vulva
the door opened and he came in
opened the fridge doors
thought of her
she was on the road
business
he grabbed a beer
the tv didn't work
he couldn't watch the news
it was snowing
and she was gone
body
the body died
in a corner
it sulked as it
died and it
told everyone
of its wishes
as it lost
its life
Sam and Brandi's Bogus Journey by Nathan Tyree
Sam and Brandi's Bogus Journey
by Nathan Tyree
This is not a tragic story. You can, you will, bring your own interpretation to it, but if the word tragedy enters your mind it is just because you spent too much time mulling Sophocles and Shakespeare in college. If you have those sort of inclinations, you should stop right now and go read some Pynchon before you finish this.
The fist time I met Sam Pink he had ragged bloody flaps of skin hanging from each cheek. I was at Jake's. A bunch of us were playing poker in his garage when Sam came sloping through the door looking like something out of a Romero movie with blood and pus dripping down on his threadbare T-shirt. After some perfunctory introductions Sam explained that he had spent the whole morning building a bike ramp out of plywood and two by fours. He had placed it in the street in front of his house then he rode his bike down the block. He had turned and ridden at full speed at the ramp, but from the wrong direction so that when he hit it the force upended the bike and sent him flying. He had hit the pavement face first and slid several feet. When he went inside and saw what his stunt had done to his face he went back outside and did the whole thing again. This time he leaned to the left so that the other side of his face would take the damage and create symmetry.
After that day I didn't give Sam a lot of thought. I was busy drinking and chasing skirt. Then one night at Skip's place, Sam called. Me and Skip and Freddy were trying to talk this girl into getting out of her clothes. Brandi was her name. She was a hot skinny little college girl that we had lured home from this crappy little club with the promise of Vanilla Stoli and a new CD by the 5, 6, 7, 8's. This girl was cute in a dark way. Smart. Smarter than any of us and she kept talking about literary theory and Harold Bloom and how Claudius was really Hamlet's father, but none of us cared about that. We were in a race to see who could nail her (or maybe we thought that we could all nail her- maybe two of us would end up spit roasting her and the third would have to wait his turn). Anyway, Sam called Skip's cell to invite us to his restaurant.
Sam had rented three buildings right next to each other. He had spray painted the words Pink's Palace across the front of each boarded up shit hole and announced to everyone that Pink's Palace was the hot new eatery in town. He didn't have a stove, and there was just some strung out junky bink in a bikini that he had convinced to act like a waitress. He was despondent in a Holden Caulfield sort of way about the fact that he didn't have any customers. Skip told him to come over. Since he didn't have any menus he decided to take him up on it.
Skip told me that Sam had inherited some money from his grandmother. That was how he
afforded all of his odd schemes like the restaurant.
By the time Sam showed up Brandi was almost unconscious and Skip had a nasty look in his eye. She had been making out with Freddy and then she let Skip feel her up a little, but then she fell back in the recliner and wouldn't talk to anyone. Her hair was mussed.
When Sam got there he came through the door with a rubber chicken in his fist. His Mohawk had fallen over to one side. The boy was like a tornado. Loud. Brandi snapped back and somehow gravitated to the weird kid. It did not take long before the rest of us realized that we had missed our shot with her. After a while we started a poker game but Brandi and Sam had vanished.
I said something about needing to piss and went looking. When I opened the bedroom door I saw Sam flat on his back, naked. His engorged cock was sticking up like a flag pole with a bend in it. Brandi was straddling him, holding a roll of paper towels and forcing them into his mouth. She had one knee on each of his wrists, keeping him from fighting back as she pushed harder and harder forcing the paper deeper into his mouth and down his throat.
When he stopped struggling she stood up, slid her pant and panties off then stood over his face. She squatted and started to piss directly onto the roll of paper towels sticking from his rigor mouth. It was then that I realized that Sam was dead. When she saw me watching she turned to look at me, still pissing and said "So, you wanna get fucked or what?"
by Nathan Tyree
This is not a tragic story. You can, you will, bring your own interpretation to it, but if the word tragedy enters your mind it is just because you spent too much time mulling Sophocles and Shakespeare in college. If you have those sort of inclinations, you should stop right now and go read some Pynchon before you finish this.
The fist time I met Sam Pink he had ragged bloody flaps of skin hanging from each cheek. I was at Jake's. A bunch of us were playing poker in his garage when Sam came sloping through the door looking like something out of a Romero movie with blood and pus dripping down on his threadbare T-shirt. After some perfunctory introductions Sam explained that he had spent the whole morning building a bike ramp out of plywood and two by fours. He had placed it in the street in front of his house then he rode his bike down the block. He had turned and ridden at full speed at the ramp, but from the wrong direction so that when he hit it the force upended the bike and sent him flying. He had hit the pavement face first and slid several feet. When he went inside and saw what his stunt had done to his face he went back outside and did the whole thing again. This time he leaned to the left so that the other side of his face would take the damage and create symmetry.
After that day I didn't give Sam a lot of thought. I was busy drinking and chasing skirt. Then one night at Skip's place, Sam called. Me and Skip and Freddy were trying to talk this girl into getting out of her clothes. Brandi was her name. She was a hot skinny little college girl that we had lured home from this crappy little club with the promise of Vanilla Stoli and a new CD by the 5, 6, 7, 8's. This girl was cute in a dark way. Smart. Smarter than any of us and she kept talking about literary theory and Harold Bloom and how Claudius was really Hamlet's father, but none of us cared about that. We were in a race to see who could nail her (or maybe we thought that we could all nail her- maybe two of us would end up spit roasting her and the third would have to wait his turn). Anyway, Sam called Skip's cell to invite us to his restaurant.
Sam had rented three buildings right next to each other. He had spray painted the words Pink's Palace across the front of each boarded up shit hole and announced to everyone that Pink's Palace was the hot new eatery in town. He didn't have a stove, and there was just some strung out junky bink in a bikini that he had convinced to act like a waitress. He was despondent in a Holden Caulfield sort of way about the fact that he didn't have any customers. Skip told him to come over. Since he didn't have any menus he decided to take him up on it.
Skip told me that Sam had inherited some money from his grandmother. That was how he
afforded all of his odd schemes like the restaurant.
By the time Sam showed up Brandi was almost unconscious and Skip had a nasty look in his eye. She had been making out with Freddy and then she let Skip feel her up a little, but then she fell back in the recliner and wouldn't talk to anyone. Her hair was mussed.
When Sam got there he came through the door with a rubber chicken in his fist. His Mohawk had fallen over to one side. The boy was like a tornado. Loud. Brandi snapped back and somehow gravitated to the weird kid. It did not take long before the rest of us realized that we had missed our shot with her. After a while we started a poker game but Brandi and Sam had vanished.
I said something about needing to piss and went looking. When I opened the bedroom door I saw Sam flat on his back, naked. His engorged cock was sticking up like a flag pole with a bend in it. Brandi was straddling him, holding a roll of paper towels and forcing them into his mouth. She had one knee on each of his wrists, keeping him from fighting back as she pushed harder and harder forcing the paper deeper into his mouth and down his throat.
When he stopped struggling she stood up, slid her pant and panties off then stood over his face. She squatted and started to piss directly onto the roll of paper towels sticking from his rigor mouth. It was then that I realized that Sam was dead. When she saw me watching she turned to look at me, still pissing and said "So, you wanna get fucked or what?"
WINNER
Everyone is a winner.
Send me a mailing address to brandiwells at gmail dot com and I will mail you a super awesome prize.
And since the deadline wasn't actually until tonight, you can still send in your submission. And be a winner! And get a prize. So do it. I never win anything. Except scrabble. I am an excellent scrabble and boggle player.
Send me a mailing address to brandiwells at gmail dot com and I will mail you a super awesome prize.
And since the deadline wasn't actually until tonight, you can still send in your submission. And be a winner! And get a prize. So do it. I never win anything. Except scrabble. I am an excellent scrabble and boggle player.
Feather Pistol, by Darby Larson
Feather Pistol
There's enough feathers glued to the pistol already. Cut it out. The thing could fly. Get a broom maybe. The phone is ringing. The whole story is as follows: Gregory dumped Jane for her Janeyness. That is all. Are you listening? Another story happened and went because you weren't listening. There's more feathers on the ground. Get a broom. More stories I will tell the class. Maybe if you'd stop, listen, you'd hear the stories. The end. Don't point that at me. Answer the phone, it's for me. Look at all these feathers. Okay, there's a phone call for me I have to take it. Real quick, here is the story: Gregory dumped Jane. Some details: Gregory loved and dumped Jane and loved her after, but for her Janeyness, no. That is all. Okay. Here is the story: Gregory loved Jane and wanted details which she wouldn't give due to her Janeyness. No. Hand me the phone. Here is the thing: Janeyness fell in love with Gregory inside their respective wombs. Here: Jane and Gregory fell in love and got married and had children and grandchildren and died together and Jane's Janeyness was never an issue because she wouldn't give Gregory details so he loved her and dumped her and loved her more after, happily ever. Hello?
There's enough feathers glued to the pistol already. Cut it out. The thing could fly. Get a broom maybe. The phone is ringing. The whole story is as follows: Gregory dumped Jane for her Janeyness. That is all. Are you listening? Another story happened and went because you weren't listening. There's more feathers on the ground. Get a broom. More stories I will tell the class. Maybe if you'd stop, listen, you'd hear the stories. The end. Don't point that at me. Answer the phone, it's for me. Look at all these feathers. Okay, there's a phone call for me I have to take it. Real quick, here is the story: Gregory dumped Jane. Some details: Gregory loved and dumped Jane and loved her after, but for her Janeyness, no. That is all. Okay. Here is the story: Gregory loved Jane and wanted details which she wouldn't give due to her Janeyness. No. Hand me the phone. Here is the thing: Janeyness fell in love with Gregory inside their respective wombs. Here: Jane and Gregory fell in love and got married and had children and grandchildren and died together and Jane's Janeyness was never an issue because she wouldn't give Gregory details so he loved her and dumped her and loved her more after, happily ever. Hello?
Flippant, A Bosworth/xTx Joint
Flippant
A Bosworth/xTx Joint
The boy met the girl on the internet, or maybe it was the other way around. The boy had the power of word which impressed the girl who had the same power which impressed the boy, or maybe it was the other way around. Emails and, eventually, pictures were exchanged, or maybe it was the other way around. Trouble ensued.
“Show me your cock!”
“Show me your cooch!”
“Let’s fuck!”
“Let’s fight!”
“This can’t go on!”
“This must go on!”
And it did go on or it didn’t go on, long and strong til the break-a break-a dawn, when finally the boy or maybe the girl had an awakening where thoughts unfurl and half-rhymes sputter sans end.
“Give me your address! Something I must send!”
Then the arm wrestling began.
“I can’t!”
“You should!”
“I won’t!”
“You will!”
Three rounds, four, until forearms became sore and the girl broke down and gave him:
Three six niner Seaward Way.
Followed by city.
Followed by state.
“Plainly wrapped please!”
Then wrestling turned to wait.
What to send or what not to send, impatience and madness an imperfect blend. Inspired by Van, perchance by Gough, the boy brought forth the razor and sliced his fucking ear off. Wrapped up in foil, a cross-country toil, one deafened ear shipped in a package of stitching.
The parcel, crusted with the smell of rust, was opened with Christmas day enthusiasm. Holding the disembodied ear to her own, the girl strutted and posed, radiating coruscate shivers.
“This means something,” she said confidently to her three-eared reflection, chime of her voice filled with west coast inflection.
“I love it!”
“You do?”
“So beautiful.”
“Your turn.”
“I know…”
Not wanting to disappoint, the girl reached internal. A tooth she plucked, the theme sought: eternal. Kissing enamel with reverent adieu, she wrapped up and stamped, “To My Sweet You…”
A tooth, an ear, so quaint, how queer! Expertly sewn, nimble fingers kept pace, the girl laced his ear to the side of her face. With hammer and spike, the boy buried her roots, dicing his gums while stomping his boots. Turning her cheek to his words on the screen, “I think of you, sopping,” sounded far from obscene.
It didn’t stop there, within weeks more did come: an eyelid, a nipple, a nostril, a thumb. Piled up boxes, destitute and devoid, their treasures removed, then gainfully employed. His parts now hers and hers now his, the question emerged, “Is that all there is?”
A ticket, a plane, two mutants did meet. Children ran screaming all over the street. A knock, a push, a kiss, a kick, the girl dropped her panties and hefted his dick.
“What wonderful work!” he said with her lips, heavy with gloss a quarter-inch thick. With a wink and a giggle, the boy flopped on the bed, then spreading his legs, the girl gave herself head.
In a sickening writhing of guttural sound, the boy fucked the girl, or maybe it was the other way around.
A Bosworth/xTx Joint
The boy met the girl on the internet, or maybe it was the other way around. The boy had the power of word which impressed the girl who had the same power which impressed the boy, or maybe it was the other way around. Emails and, eventually, pictures were exchanged, or maybe it was the other way around. Trouble ensued.
“Show me your cock!”
“Show me your cooch!”
“Let’s fuck!”
“Let’s fight!”
“This can’t go on!”
“This must go on!”
And it did go on or it didn’t go on, long and strong til the break-a break-a dawn, when finally the boy or maybe the girl had an awakening where thoughts unfurl and half-rhymes sputter sans end.
“Give me your address! Something I must send!”
Then the arm wrestling began.
“I can’t!”
“You should!”
“I won’t!”
“You will!”
Three rounds, four, until forearms became sore and the girl broke down and gave him:
Three six niner Seaward Way.
Followed by city.
Followed by state.
“Plainly wrapped please!”
Then wrestling turned to wait.
What to send or what not to send, impatience and madness an imperfect blend. Inspired by Van, perchance by Gough, the boy brought forth the razor and sliced his fucking ear off. Wrapped up in foil, a cross-country toil, one deafened ear shipped in a package of stitching.
The parcel, crusted with the smell of rust, was opened with Christmas day enthusiasm. Holding the disembodied ear to her own, the girl strutted and posed, radiating coruscate shivers.
“This means something,” she said confidently to her three-eared reflection, chime of her voice filled with west coast inflection.
“I love it!”
“You do?”
“So beautiful.”
“Your turn.”
“I know…”
Not wanting to disappoint, the girl reached internal. A tooth she plucked, the theme sought: eternal. Kissing enamel with reverent adieu, she wrapped up and stamped, “To My Sweet You…”
A tooth, an ear, so quaint, how queer! Expertly sewn, nimble fingers kept pace, the girl laced his ear to the side of her face. With hammer and spike, the boy buried her roots, dicing his gums while stomping his boots. Turning her cheek to his words on the screen, “I think of you, sopping,” sounded far from obscene.
It didn’t stop there, within weeks more did come: an eyelid, a nipple, a nostril, a thumb. Piled up boxes, destitute and devoid, their treasures removed, then gainfully employed. His parts now hers and hers now his, the question emerged, “Is that all there is?”
A ticket, a plane, two mutants did meet. Children ran screaming all over the street. A knock, a push, a kiss, a kick, the girl dropped her panties and hefted his dick.
“What wonderful work!” he said with her lips, heavy with gloss a quarter-inch thick. With a wink and a giggle, the boy flopped on the bed, then spreading his legs, the girl gave herself head.
In a sickening writhing of guttural sound, the boy fucked the girl, or maybe it was the other way around.
several things by Jon Catron
Content?
by Jon Catron
8 parts Hydrogen
4 parts Oxygen
4 parts Carbon
1 part Iron
1 part Calcium
assorted heavy metals and pollutants
Mix liberally with Isolation and Doubt
Stain
by Jon Catron
Cheap moments splatter from my cup like cheap wine, staining the cloth.
You toss the glass across the room with a torrent of expletives as your back storms
away from me. Soaked and shattered,
I do not see the waste of it all.
And you have always deserved better.
I Cannot Swallow
by Jon Catron
I walk away, kicking up dirt.
The dirt beneath my heels
is the dirt on my tongue.
I cannot swallow.
So I walk away,
kicking up more dirt.
thirtee n per spective break s
byJon catr
on
Blurred eyes slide
pieces of a jigsaw face
into finely m i n c e d detail.
Knuckles bleed silently,
white and sparkling.
The mirror screams
angry
words that I cannot say.
It breaks
for me. It bleeds for
me.
God does not heed either of us.
by Jon Catron
8 parts Hydrogen
4 parts Oxygen
4 parts Carbon
1 part Iron
1 part Calcium
assorted heavy metals and pollutants
Mix liberally with Isolation and Doubt
Stain
by Jon Catron
Cheap moments splatter from my cup like cheap wine, staining the cloth.
You toss the glass across the room with a torrent of expletives as your back storms
away from me. Soaked and shattered,
I do not see the waste of it all.
And you have always deserved better.
I Cannot Swallow
by Jon Catron
I walk away, kicking up dirt.
The dirt beneath my heels
is the dirt on my tongue.
I cannot swallow.
So I walk away,
kicking up more dirt.
thirtee n per spective break s
byJon catr
on
Blurred eyes slide
pieces of a jigsaw face
into finely m i n c e d detail.
Knuckles bleed silently,
white and sparkling.
The mirror screams
angry
words that I cannot say.
It breaks
for me. It bleeds for
me.
God does not heed either of us.
FLEDGLING TAXIDERMY, by Eric Beeny
FLEDGLING TAXIDERMY
Carlton fed his dog.
Then he kicked it.
The dog yelped, and Carlton punched it in the face.
“I’m not advocating violence against household animals,” he said.
Carlton thought he might prove a point, that if his dog was a wild dog and it was legal to hunt wild dogs on the street he’d have every right to shoot his or any other dog.
“So there,” he said.
The dog bit Carlton’s calf, clamped his fangs down like a stapler into the meat.
The dog thought it might prove a point, that if Carlton fucked with a dog a dog would bite him.
Carlton bought the dog from the pound three months ago, this dog out of so many other dogs crammed into cages, breeding and breeding, and never enough people to adopt them, never enough to love them.
Carlton got the dog because he wanted a friend around the house.
Also, because he heard somewhere that the happiness a dog could bring a human would help him live longer.
So far, Carlton was very pleased with his purchase.
He was convinced it was working.
He’d never felt so alive, and never ever so young, so vibrant.
Carlton grabbed the dog’s ears, yanking them.
The dog yelped, locked his snout around one of Carlton’s forearms.
“I’d have you stuffed if you weren’t so lovable,” Carlton said, kicking his dog in the genitals.
Carlton fed his dog.
Then he kicked it.
The dog yelped, and Carlton punched it in the face.
“I’m not advocating violence against household animals,” he said.
Carlton thought he might prove a point, that if his dog was a wild dog and it was legal to hunt wild dogs on the street he’d have every right to shoot his or any other dog.
“So there,” he said.
The dog bit Carlton’s calf, clamped his fangs down like a stapler into the meat.
The dog thought it might prove a point, that if Carlton fucked with a dog a dog would bite him.
Carlton bought the dog from the pound three months ago, this dog out of so many other dogs crammed into cages, breeding and breeding, and never enough people to adopt them, never enough to love them.
Carlton got the dog because he wanted a friend around the house.
Also, because he heard somewhere that the happiness a dog could bring a human would help him live longer.
So far, Carlton was very pleased with his purchase.
He was convinced it was working.
He’d never felt so alive, and never ever so young, so vibrant.
Carlton grabbed the dog’s ears, yanking them.
The dog yelped, locked his snout around one of Carlton’s forearms.
“I’d have you stuffed if you weren’t so lovable,” Carlton said, kicking his dog in the genitals.
Indelible Figures Slouching Towards an Interpretation, By Andrew Borgstrom
Indelible Figures Slouching Towards an Interpretation
A deer absent a midsection. The knees on its rear legs
rubbing against the calves of its front legs.
A naked woman. Her midsection also missing.
Her young breasts already resting upon her lap.
One pig. With horse genitals.
Pierced and swaying in your wind.
Seven men. All naked and sitting in a circle.
Carved midsections and pig genitals.
A rat knocking on a door. A gun in the rat’s coat pocket.
Fur coat. An artist.
A globe of stick-ninjas with missing limbs
singing between the extremes.
A deer absent a midsection. The knees on its rear legs
rubbing against the calves of its front legs.
A naked woman. Her midsection also missing.
Her young breasts already resting upon her lap.
One pig. With horse genitals.
Pierced and swaying in your wind.
Seven men. All naked and sitting in a circle.
Carved midsections and pig genitals.
A rat knocking on a door. A gun in the rat’s coat pocket.
Fur coat. An artist.
A globe of stick-ninjas with missing limbs
singing between the extremes.
I feel how you should feel, by Ben Brooks
I feel how you should feel.
Sometimes when I feel like I love you I stand in front of the mirror in my room and say “what the fuck” over and over again until it feels like I probably don’t exist.
Sometimes when people I know walk over to say “hi” or “you stole my money” or whatever I wait till they get real close and then just run away. It makes them look really stupid and annoying.
Sometimes when I write things like this I feel like people wont "get" them and I can probably kid myself into thinking its because i am of "above average intelligence" or "have a way with words" but really its just stupid.
If you put the words in a similar order all the way through a book then people will smile and talk shit about how funny it is.
My favourite job would be correcting spelling and grammar on myspace bulletins.
My least favourite job would be a waiter.
When people say "halloa" in Dickens its really funny.
My neck hurts.
There is no such thing as art.
Today America fell into anarchy and half the population fled via "swimming". Nobody died but seven people were injured. The constitution is being re-written by a "legalise dope" collective from New Mexico.
Tungsten light is cooler than the sun.
All women are clouds.
Yours,
Ben Brooks
Sometimes when I feel like I love you I stand in front of the mirror in my room and say “what the fuck” over and over again until it feels like I probably don’t exist.
Sometimes when people I know walk over to say “hi” or “you stole my money” or whatever I wait till they get real close and then just run away. It makes them look really stupid and annoying.
Sometimes when I write things like this I feel like people wont "get" them and I can probably kid myself into thinking its because i am of "above average intelligence" or "have a way with words" but really its just stupid.
If you put the words in a similar order all the way through a book then people will smile and talk shit about how funny it is.
My favourite job would be correcting spelling and grammar on myspace bulletins.
My least favourite job would be a waiter.
When people say "halloa" in Dickens its really funny.
My neck hurts.
There is no such thing as art.
Today America fell into anarchy and half the population fled via "swimming". Nobody died but seven people were injured. The constitution is being re-written by a "legalise dope" collective from New Mexico.
Tungsten light is cooler than the sun.
All women are clouds.
Yours,
Ben Brooks
Two poems by Michael Martin, who googles himself
Intermediate Fourplay For Experts
she compared her lipstick tube to
you know what
and I suddenly wasn’t in the mood
I compared her frontside
To my frontside
And told her it was a perfect match
She was still in the mood, so
I told her she was a woodpecker
In a past life until she was shot down
And hit every ugly branch on the way
She was still in the mood
To Santa Claus
Will you buy me a
smoke, or teeth?
Buy me eyesight,
or simply an honest to goodness
heart of wood
which splinters but does not wilt?
Thank you Santa
for the soul in a box
for the energy spinning old atoms
Thank you Santa
for unwritten legend
and vampires, they are what you are:
real if you close your eyes and hate.
Even Santa dislikes.
Will you send me to Hell?
I don’t believe in it
though fire burns me to coals
she compared her lipstick tube to
you know what
and I suddenly wasn’t in the mood
I compared her frontside
To my frontside
And told her it was a perfect match
She was still in the mood, so
I told her she was a woodpecker
In a past life until she was shot down
And hit every ugly branch on the way
She was still in the mood
To Santa Claus
Will you buy me a
smoke, or teeth?
Buy me eyesight,
or simply an honest to goodness
heart of wood
which splinters but does not wilt?
Thank you Santa
for the soul in a box
for the energy spinning old atoms
Thank you Santa
for unwritten legend
and vampires, they are what you are:
real if you close your eyes and hate.
Even Santa dislikes.
Will you send me to Hell?
I don’t believe in it
though fire burns me to coals
The Bathroom In A Bar Downtown by Jay Holmes
I don't know if it's suppose to be some kind of joke or what.
The toilet is perched on a dais at the top of some rickety stairs.
The prospect of standing to take a piss way up there is totally out of the question so you sit to pee and your feet dangle free.
Some of the steps are missing and you can only see darkness below, perhaps it goes down to the basement or underneath the city.
When you flush the toilet you can hear screams for help.
The toilet is perched on a dais at the top of some rickety stairs.
The prospect of standing to take a piss way up there is totally out of the question so you sit to pee and your feet dangle free.
Some of the steps are missing and you can only see darkness below, perhaps it goes down to the basement or underneath the city.
When you flush the toilet you can hear screams for help.
Hole in Sky, by Michael Boyle
I think it was spring of ’79 when her father came to pick her up. It must have been spring. She told me about it. How her grandparents had a cottage by a lake upstate, that they rented it out but in spring and late fall, they all went there. I was sad. We were still living in that rooming house/commune I’d described as the house of the rising sun, and it was getting worse. I didn’t want her to leave. But she did. Don’t be sad, she told me, “It’s just for a few days.”
Bad things happened in that rooming house: junkies, ex-cons with guns, gunfire in the hall, more than one dealer living there. Girl who rented the place moved out taking the money we gave her for bills, then no heat or hot water… we were among the last to leave winter closing in.
Then it’s fall, 1980, and we’re driving up there. We’d gotten a little apartment, and I’d gotten my car back after leaving it parked at my parent’s house for the longest time because I couldn’t afford inspection or insurance. We both finally had full-time jobs; we’re driving up there, and she’s telling me how her father wouldn’t ever pull over for a piss stop. “All about TIME with him, gotta make TIME.”
“What. You want me to stop somewhere?”
“No, I’m just saying. He had us piss in a bottle, we had this bottle of piss, and lemme tell you, it’s way easier for a boy to piss in a bottle.”
Okay, she has two brothers, parents divorced, one brother still with her mother, the other in the navy. It becomes understood that the cottage is from the fraternal side, that her and her siblings don’t like their new stepmother, or her kids, but love their grandparents, and this place we’re driving to.
It’s a long drive that keeps going up in altitude. She directs me to the exit off I-81 way above Scranton, we drive miles of back roads into the NE corner of Pennsylvania. “Slow down,” she tells me, then directs me to a turn onto a dirt road. I drive down dirt road, come out in clearing, cottage there, lake there, park.
“This is it!” she says. She gets out and does a little dance, she is beautiful, this place is beautiful. Her grandmother comes out and she yells, “Nanna!” runs to her. I get out of the car and they go inside. I stand there. I go inside, meet the family, and after some hellos and nice to meet yous, her father says finally. Then I’m out there with her father, we’re taking the dock in for winter, we get wet dragging it up on the shore, it’s a little cold, and he’s saying things about ice crushing docks, that “I’m not sure my daughter told you I’m a civil engineer.”
I’m not sure I like him after the piss story, but say yeah. We work it, get it secured on the shore for winter. We say things people say when they’re working. It seems good. We change out of our wet clothes, hang them on the line, then go for dinner. Good food and talk and they don’t ask much, I like that, I like them. Later that evening, she and I sneak out to smoke weed. She says that was funny and I say what.
“I brought boyfriends here before and my grandparents grilled them. But not you. They liked you right off.”
The next day I’m out there clearing the lot of brush with axe and saw. Don’t know what to do or say so I’m out there, while they’re inside talking, doing whatever they did. Her grandfather comes out and looks at me. He walks down by the lake, comes back, says good. “My granddaughter says you play in a band.”
“Did. It fell apart. Things fall apart.”
He walks away humming to himself. I go back to chopping and clearing brush. He comes back, says I played bass in a band way before you were born, “The Lehigh Three, bass, drums, and this whacky guy who played trombone. We thought we were great. Nobody else thought we were great. Trombone player went off to do a stint with the Dorsey brothers. Last I heard, he was in L.A. driving a taxi. Okay?”
I’m holding the axe. I look around, nobody is around. “I could kill you,” I say. He laughs at me. “Balls,” he says. He goes back inside.
I go back to clearing brush.
It’s years later. Years of taking in the dock and putting it back out. The whole melodrama of her family, the stepmother, her kids. Her brother out of the navy, up there, we’re up there sawing down trees that crowd the little dirt road. We’re running to that old bar in Orson, sawdust floor, mountain folk. We’re running to Thompson, to the general store, for supplies. Days swimming in the lake, nights with the bonfire by the lake, older folks saying inside, just me, her, and her brother out there, smoking weed, drinking, talking. Mass of stars brilliant up there in the hills, never saw stars like that down in the megalopolis, in the valley, never knew anything like this with my family.
A year later, we’re engaged, and her grandparents let us have the place for a week, late summer. We have the place to ourselves, and I have some acid. My new band is gaining momentum and I’m in my Jim Morrison phase. I’m tripping, I’m skinny dipping in the lake at night yelling, “COME ON IN.” She doesn’t want to, says I’m crazy. She stands on the dock.
I swim further out, thinking about what is down there, fish, maybe monsters, don’t. Dark below and above. Swim to yonder shore, get out, walk around naked. I’m a ghost. I’m creeping around the shore, I’m looking at cottages, in cottage windows, I’m being a creep. I’m laying on beach looking at sky, hearing music in my head. I’m hearing night sounds. A light comes on, I dive back in and find center of lake. I’m pretty sure it’s the center. I float out there, look towards the dock, don’t see her. She should have come in. I’m floating between sky and water in lake. There’s no moon. Sky cup of stars makes a crown, I’m lake monster wearing a crown.
Bad things happened in that rooming house: junkies, ex-cons with guns, gunfire in the hall, more than one dealer living there. Girl who rented the place moved out taking the money we gave her for bills, then no heat or hot water… we were among the last to leave winter closing in.
Then it’s fall, 1980, and we’re driving up there. We’d gotten a little apartment, and I’d gotten my car back after leaving it parked at my parent’s house for the longest time because I couldn’t afford inspection or insurance. We both finally had full-time jobs; we’re driving up there, and she’s telling me how her father wouldn’t ever pull over for a piss stop. “All about TIME with him, gotta make TIME.”
“What. You want me to stop somewhere?”
“No, I’m just saying. He had us piss in a bottle, we had this bottle of piss, and lemme tell you, it’s way easier for a boy to piss in a bottle.”
Okay, she has two brothers, parents divorced, one brother still with her mother, the other in the navy. It becomes understood that the cottage is from the fraternal side, that her and her siblings don’t like their new stepmother, or her kids, but love their grandparents, and this place we’re driving to.
It’s a long drive that keeps going up in altitude. She directs me to the exit off I-81 way above Scranton, we drive miles of back roads into the NE corner of Pennsylvania. “Slow down,” she tells me, then directs me to a turn onto a dirt road. I drive down dirt road, come out in clearing, cottage there, lake there, park.
“This is it!” she says. She gets out and does a little dance, she is beautiful, this place is beautiful. Her grandmother comes out and she yells, “Nanna!” runs to her. I get out of the car and they go inside. I stand there. I go inside, meet the family, and after some hellos and nice to meet yous, her father says finally. Then I’m out there with her father, we’re taking the dock in for winter, we get wet dragging it up on the shore, it’s a little cold, and he’s saying things about ice crushing docks, that “I’m not sure my daughter told you I’m a civil engineer.”
I’m not sure I like him after the piss story, but say yeah. We work it, get it secured on the shore for winter. We say things people say when they’re working. It seems good. We change out of our wet clothes, hang them on the line, then go for dinner. Good food and talk and they don’t ask much, I like that, I like them. Later that evening, she and I sneak out to smoke weed. She says that was funny and I say what.
“I brought boyfriends here before and my grandparents grilled them. But not you. They liked you right off.”
The next day I’m out there clearing the lot of brush with axe and saw. Don’t know what to do or say so I’m out there, while they’re inside talking, doing whatever they did. Her grandfather comes out and looks at me. He walks down by the lake, comes back, says good. “My granddaughter says you play in a band.”
“Did. It fell apart. Things fall apart.”
He walks away humming to himself. I go back to chopping and clearing brush. He comes back, says I played bass in a band way before you were born, “The Lehigh Three, bass, drums, and this whacky guy who played trombone. We thought we were great. Nobody else thought we were great. Trombone player went off to do a stint with the Dorsey brothers. Last I heard, he was in L.A. driving a taxi. Okay?”
I’m holding the axe. I look around, nobody is around. “I could kill you,” I say. He laughs at me. “Balls,” he says. He goes back inside.
I go back to clearing brush.
It’s years later. Years of taking in the dock and putting it back out. The whole melodrama of her family, the stepmother, her kids. Her brother out of the navy, up there, we’re up there sawing down trees that crowd the little dirt road. We’re running to that old bar in Orson, sawdust floor, mountain folk. We’re running to Thompson, to the general store, for supplies. Days swimming in the lake, nights with the bonfire by the lake, older folks saying inside, just me, her, and her brother out there, smoking weed, drinking, talking. Mass of stars brilliant up there in the hills, never saw stars like that down in the megalopolis, in the valley, never knew anything like this with my family.
A year later, we’re engaged, and her grandparents let us have the place for a week, late summer. We have the place to ourselves, and I have some acid. My new band is gaining momentum and I’m in my Jim Morrison phase. I’m tripping, I’m skinny dipping in the lake at night yelling, “COME ON IN.” She doesn’t want to, says I’m crazy. She stands on the dock.
I swim further out, thinking about what is down there, fish, maybe monsters, don’t. Dark below and above. Swim to yonder shore, get out, walk around naked. I’m a ghost. I’m creeping around the shore, I’m looking at cottages, in cottage windows, I’m being a creep. I’m laying on beach looking at sky, hearing music in my head. I’m hearing night sounds. A light comes on, I dive back in and find center of lake. I’m pretty sure it’s the center. I float out there, look towards the dock, don’t see her. She should have come in. I’m floating between sky and water in lake. There’s no moon. Sky cup of stars makes a crown, I’m lake monster wearing a crown.
Dreaming of a Changing Bat by Jonny Kelly
Me and Ferox-Holocaust-Cerebellum-SalivaGland-Theory-of-the-big-bang-testicles-deep-red-cannibalman had a chat about our dreams yesterday. His was about cannibals, but
mine was very different.
Here it goes: I was walking in a street completely populated by
Forest Whitakers, Robert Englands (not in freddy costumes) and a
sleeping bat. The bat was sleeping on a book, and snoring. The book was Volume 1 of
Clive Barker's Books of Blood series. At the point of looking at the
sleeping bat I noticed that all the Forests and Roberts had all ran
off, all 10 of them.
I stayed and watched the bat wake from its sleep, it got off the book
and stared at me for a few seconds. Then suddenly the little bastard
went for my leg, I actually felt pain in my dream. I looked down at my
knee and the bat's small head inflated into a massive round
balloon-like head.
That's when I woke up with Clive Barker's Books of Blood on my lap,
and a cold sweat running down my nose.
mine was very different.
Here it goes: I was walking in a street completely populated by
Forest Whitakers, Robert Englands (not in freddy costumes) and a
sleeping bat. The bat was sleeping on a book, and snoring. The book was Volume 1 of
Clive Barker's Books of Blood series. At the point of looking at the
sleeping bat I noticed that all the Forests and Roberts had all ran
off, all 10 of them.
I stayed and watched the bat wake from its sleep, it got off the book
and stared at me for a few seconds. Then suddenly the little bastard
went for my leg, I actually felt pain in my dream. I looked down at my
knee and the bat's small head inflated into a massive round
balloon-like head.
That's when I woke up with Clive Barker's Books of Blood on my lap,
and a cold sweat running down my nose.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Win
I've decided that the person who sends me the best submission between now and Friday the 15, will win a prize. It is a secret prize. It is either a good prize or a bad prize, but it is secret and that makes you want it, yes?
Anyway, send one word/symbol to 20,000 words and if I like it, you will win the secret prize. If you don't win, I will still post your entry on The Brandi Wells Review.
PRIZESPRIZESPRIZES
send all submissions to brandiwells at gmail.com
Anyway, send one word/symbol to 20,000 words and if I like it, you will win the secret prize. If you don't win, I will still post your entry on The Brandi Wells Review.
PRIZESPRIZESPRIZES
send all submissions to brandiwells at gmail.com
Spurned, by Nathan Tyree
Spurned
by Nathan Tyree
The thing is,
I never thought that she
would come back.
I never would have
moved on quite so completely
if I had known that she would
show up here at
my door.
I guess I should have
buried her deeper.
by Nathan Tyree
The thing is,
I never thought that she
would come back.
I never would have
moved on quite so completely
if I had known that she would
show up here at
my door.
I guess I should have
buried her deeper.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Suddenly, by Greg Santos
Suddenly
The phone rang. The Ghost of Christmas Past was drunk again and needed a place to crash. I hid under my sheets and whistled a grisly tune to drown out the noise. The condor sleeping at the foot of my bed woke with a start and asked for some water. No dice! The alarm clock glowed midnight so the condor reluctantly complied and turned back into a pumpkin. I furiously tried to lick the back of my hand to get the ball rolling but the darned limb was broken. I’d never get to Kuala Lumpur at this rate. Dick Tracy slid open my window and offered me a hand but I refused: one mustn’t accept candy from strangers. The phone rang again. It was Ben. Where are you? I’m in a cornfield. Duh. It was a lovely winter evening. The Denver Broncos (clad in their always lovely chiffon nightgowns) were quietly practicing on the front lawn. The neighborhood possum was catching snowflakes on its tongue. The snow tasted of nostalgia. Maryn popped out of our walk-in closet and ran around the room so fast her hair caught fire. It was December and seven months ahead of my birthday but man oh man was that one heck of a birthday party.
The phone rang. The Ghost of Christmas Past was drunk again and needed a place to crash. I hid under my sheets and whistled a grisly tune to drown out the noise. The condor sleeping at the foot of my bed woke with a start and asked for some water. No dice! The alarm clock glowed midnight so the condor reluctantly complied and turned back into a pumpkin. I furiously tried to lick the back of my hand to get the ball rolling but the darned limb was broken. I’d never get to Kuala Lumpur at this rate. Dick Tracy slid open my window and offered me a hand but I refused: one mustn’t accept candy from strangers. The phone rang again. It was Ben. Where are you? I’m in a cornfield. Duh. It was a lovely winter evening. The Denver Broncos (clad in their always lovely chiffon nightgowns) were quietly practicing on the front lawn. The neighborhood possum was catching snowflakes on its tongue. The snow tasted of nostalgia. Maryn popped out of our walk-in closet and ran around the room so fast her hair caught fire. It was December and seven months ahead of my birthday but man oh man was that one heck of a birthday party.
Orange Cock, by wiredwriter
Orange Cock
Martin left one building and entered another then told the girl at the
receptionist desk he was there to see Mr. Evans. The girl asked for
Martin’s name and Martin said his name was Martin Richter. The girl
looked in a book and then looked up at Martin and smiled.
“He’ll be right with you,” she said, “so you can have a seat.” Martin
knew she would say that because that is what girls who sit at
receptionist desks say when someone arrives to visit their bosses.
Martin took a seat and thumbed a magazine that was five years old. The
articles in the magazine had nothing to do with Martin or anything in
his life, so he decided to close the magazine and wait for Mr. Evans.
But just before closing the cover he noticed a photo of an orange
pylon. The pylon was part of an ad about buying stock and the tip of
the cone was inside a woman’s mouth. The woman was shouting something
through the pylon but the ad didn’t say what she was shouting.
“Martin Richter?”
Martin threw down the magazine and stood to his feet. He shook hands
with Mr. Evans then entered his office, giving the girl at the desk a
receptive smile as he passed. The girl smiled back.
“Why do you want to work for our company?” Mr. Evans asked. Martin
hesitated then said he loved working for companies with pretty girls
at receptionist desks and would it be okay if he asked his
receptionist out sometime. Mr. Evans asked Martin to leave his office,
so Martin stood and left, grabbing the five-year-old magazine on the
way out.
When the evening came Martin dreamed of pylons with arms and heads the
shape of desks.
Martin left one building and entered another then told the girl at the
receptionist desk he was there to see Mr. Evans. The girl asked for
Martin’s name and Martin said his name was Martin Richter. The girl
looked in a book and then looked up at Martin and smiled.
“He’ll be right with you,” she said, “so you can have a seat.” Martin
knew she would say that because that is what girls who sit at
receptionist desks say when someone arrives to visit their bosses.
Martin took a seat and thumbed a magazine that was five years old. The
articles in the magazine had nothing to do with Martin or anything in
his life, so he decided to close the magazine and wait for Mr. Evans.
But just before closing the cover he noticed a photo of an orange
pylon. The pylon was part of an ad about buying stock and the tip of
the cone was inside a woman’s mouth. The woman was shouting something
through the pylon but the ad didn’t say what she was shouting.
“Martin Richter?”
Martin threw down the magazine and stood to his feet. He shook hands
with Mr. Evans then entered his office, giving the girl at the desk a
receptive smile as he passed. The girl smiled back.
“Why do you want to work for our company?” Mr. Evans asked. Martin
hesitated then said he loved working for companies with pretty girls
at receptionist desks and would it be okay if he asked his
receptionist out sometime. Mr. Evans asked Martin to leave his office,
so Martin stood and left, grabbing the five-year-old magazine on the
way out.
When the evening came Martin dreamed of pylons with arms and heads the
shape of desks.
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