Archive for category short-story

Dehydrated Love Story

Amidst writing several chapters of complex psychologically absurd drama, this bizarre love fritter slid out of my skull and stuck to my scratch paper like a viscid slug. I had to share it with you:

I’m standing on a corner in Winslow Arizona as hell-fire-god-of-death-sun-ray’s perpetually pernicious pain is shat upon my milky-pale and overly tender face flesh, blood-buttered thoughts of perverted insanity spiral like parasitic worms, wide-wedging the jagged fissure betwixt my cerebral hemispheres. A road-ragged whore mongrel of a morbidly repugnant cycloptic prostitute asks me, “Gotta cigarette?”

Standing there naked with my blade shredded cock, peeled banana style—fried pork skin tongued flesh-flaps draping repellent—desert-crackle-dried onto my bare-shaven-upper-inner thighs and splintered mop-stick stabbed up my ass pocket and I say, “Why yes I do have a cigarette you scrumptiously decadent and endlessly sexual beast of a witch-dog-stink-holed-harlot. Would you like a half-smoked mentholated Kool Filter King 100 or an unlit urine impregnated Camel unfiltered which was reportedly once clenched wetly between the sexually desirous testicle suckling lips of Julia Roberts at age eighteen?” I wrap my grime crusted unclean fingers around her lice-ravaged skull as our fluid sheathed tongues defile each other’s mouths. Two highbred patrician couples quick-draw-whip their camera-phones out to capture a Kodak moment for their nauseating blogs or to share with lovers on hot steamy midnight escapades.

She stands perplexed with confusion’s steaming vomit shellacking her vacuous gaze, plucks a blood-stuffed wood-tick from her strangled knot of pubic hairs—the two uptown aristocrats with white-bulbed eyeballs distending from choked occipital pockets blazing stares of non-belief—and says, “I’ll have the half-smoked mentholated Kool Filter King 100. I fucking hate Julia Roberts, she promiscuously slept with 47 men she met on movie sets. I might be the ugliest scab of female to ever walk the planet earth, but hey . . . I have class.

They built a putrid life of love-stench beneath the soul-frying Arizona sun, raised mongoloid triplets in an excrement stained Pueblo mud-tent, and lived three more years before dying of desert-scorched dehydration. The latest word is their rotting carcasses were picked clean by meat-hungry buzzards. Their three children (Poo-Poo, Skabb. and Bunk) were sold to a well-known nefarious biker gang and now star in underground sex films.

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The Countryclub Bartender Affair

Emerald beards of grass bladed sweet under apricot sky; cotton candy breeze, banana sun and warmth healing forlorn hearts–or tearing them apart. It was 6 AM. Too early for liquor, beer and millionaire golfers but I was the country club bartender. The gated community of Windance was stained with vicious rumors, ego-maniacal fools and blistering women. Mornings were nice–filling ice chests with Budweiser, Heineken and Coors–chatting with the early birds. The older ladies came in scented of coconut sunscreen wanting cups of water with lemon to perfume sulfured artesian.
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Forgotten Slabs of Nothingness

A twitching fly danced nervously across her eyebrow with jittery spasmodic maneuvers, foraging for secreted oils and mites along each individual hair strand, suckling nourishment with its moistened labellum. But she didn’t mind. Perhaps it was her pet, perhaps it has a name. Maybe she had it trained to keep her slanted brow clean, providing warmth and hospitality in return. I waited for her to speak, but she did not.

“So, what’s his . . .  or her name?” I asked, my eyes intensely focused on her pet fly.

Her head remained locked in position, angled forward and staring down at the table, but her eyes rotated like security cameras towards my mouth, “I am a female. I have the features of a woman. Is this your first day outside?”

I was late for work just trying to read the paper and enjoy my morning coffee when she sat before me. Normally I wouldn’t mind and even converse on occasion, but the fly was still there and her fingernails were jagged, gnawed and thickened black crust lined her cuticles and brims. “Yes, I know you are a woman,” I replied, deciding to steer away from questioning about the fly in case she was the devil, “Names Bobby.” Her eyes rolled back down, shunning me. Words flew from my lips before I could think, “Weren’t you in this month’s issue of High Times magazine?”

Forgotten Slabs of Nothingness

Forgotten Slabs of Nothingness

With alien machination, her neck gyrated upright; calcium deposits between her cartilaginous discs crackled and popped within her long stiffened joints. She purposefully and agonizingly extravasated a tear droplet from her left eye as the fly inched in to drink, to humidify and refresh. She answered, “Bah!” She slams her fist onto the table, an unexpected eruption of anger, “Who cares what you say, you cannot fool me, you are not Myiagros.”

Her vicious scowl dissolved in Christmas-morning-funeral-sadness and she began crying, her fly masterfully navigating betwixt an avalanche of tears. Shivering, her filthy hands twittering, I feared surrounding eyes may take notice but I remained hypnotic, still as dead rock, unable to quiver. I offered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you, I can be snarky at times.”

Like a starving child weak from disease and hunger, thirsting desperately for love, she gazed into me. Pleading for comfort in clairvoyant reverberations, a telepathic resonance of kindness, realizing there was hope after all. She softly groaned, “You hate me don’t you. You despise me, I can sense it,” she tripled her volume and intensity, “after 2443 years, you want back in my life? You think you can dispose of me like a diseased toilet rag and expect my love? You don’t deserve to live you putrid pustule of human trash.”

I was locked in place as frozen bone knot while a whispering, almost inaudible musical note was voiced through my lips: a perfectly intonated B flat beyond my control, “hmmmmmm.”

She began giggling with a little girl’s devious smile. In timbre of angelic desire, her moistened voice slid easily into the blistering itch, the desirous tissues within my throbbing eardrums, a poetry of revelation:

“I am your mother, you are my maggot. This I composed for you my sweet:

Slab Of Chunk

One thousand angles remain uncarved
precise facets itch to be revealed
profuse loaf of marrow
my slab of chunk
parched friction shiv
glossed chimera; egged Neoptera
we give, we love, we taste, we feed

one thousand sculptured futures
could be
chiseled from thickened clot
my bulb root
my dead curd
my bone knot
a chunk of possibilities; my slab of dreams
molded from my gristle plug
a hand forged expression
my tortured hunger
kneading raw lobe
gentle fingers coaxing
chunk shapeless; viscid spume
purging what is not
unveiling itself
unessentials cleaved; liquids interleaved
leaving only you and I.”

By holding my breath and squeezing my ribs inward, I unbelievably coaxed my eyes to scan the surrounding tables. A room full of people eating breakfast, chatting or drinking coffee—but nobody noticed me—in the clutch of supreme terror as this wretched  nymph spat linguistic venom in my eyes. She is my master, my instructor, my possessor, she who enforced governance; imposed policy and owned my eternity. It seemed I was here for years enshrouded in her being.

With razored exhalation, blood steam escaped her lips shaped as mucid wasps, hissing shades of twirling flame, scented in raspberry. Her flavour the stink of unbathed sex, immoral and pulsating. Words egressed from her sweetly, “Thank you for this my lover . . . kiss me.”

Her flesh disrobed in nakedness, her wet tongue engrafting my entirety. Her supple breast melted into me as we grew together as epidermal slabs, an undulating mass of human dough for all eyes to devour. Floating within parallel dimensions, we were exhibitionists, loaves of enjoined marrow, unsculptured futures carved by Leviathan.

Cold fingers of jagged bone slithered from her gaping cleft, locking vice claws into her face as the stench of rotting death bathed my soul. Frigid vibrations of scorching acid shredded my bones into jelly, she rejected me, bone nails peeled her skull of flesh revealing blackened morbidity. Raped by demon. My cloaked seductress. My unforgettable lesson.

I exploded forth, escaping this depraved madness . . . screaming, “Get off of me you cantankerous hideous bloodsucking goth.” My fists clenched into molten hammers as I endlessly beat and pulverized the cyclopean harlot—blood smoke and gristle choked from ghastly lacerations—gnarled organs spilling to the floor.

I was slammed to the concrete, steely hands shaking me while my cranium bounced, splintering between thuds, “What the hell is wrong with you mister? Icy water splattered across my face; my body still fighting. But I was smothered beneath several men holding me down. “Are you in there? Look at me . . . calm down!”

“Yes, thank God, I can see you. Oh please, thank God. Is she dead? Is she still here?”

The man looked perplexed, twisted in confusion, “Sir, what the hell are you talking about? You walked in here thirty seconds ago asking for your mother and blood started dripping from your eyes, nose and mouth. I mean it was freaking spraying everywhere. You collapsed but Jessica, our hostess, caught you in her arms. We placed you right here on the floor. The ambulance is on the way, just stay with us.”

“Jessica . . . it was her, the demon whore who did this—”

Tears oozed atop her brimmed flesh fold, trickling down her cheek, “What? Oh no sir, I saved your life. I’m so sorry, my name is Jessica. I just want you to be alright.” She took my hand and began praying for me, kissing the crucifix draped around her throat. “Dear lord, have mercy on his soul, please let him live. Please God.”

An unknown slab of time has since passed. I am only guessing I’ve been in this medical facility for months. Now, I lay bed ridden in this cold white room. Awake only a few hours, I wrote this, the details of my ordeal to the best of my recollection. I cannot feel my legs. I feel numb, dead, lost. I have no idea who I am, only my last memories, and Jessica. I am so alone, so very alone. Perhaps I don’t even exist, perhaps I’m dead, or in hell. I shall never forget her poetry, her scent or her complexity. I only know I love her. I forgive her and she forgives me. We will be together endlessly.

I’ve yet to see anyone else here, no doctors, no nurses. I would give anything to simply have a fly nest on my skin, to be my friend and receive my undying love. I lay here hoping to know, to know something, to know anything at all.
This concludes my new journal for this unknown day in time, and now I must sleep.

Sincerely,

Somebody

*I wrote this unplanned. I sat down and just started typing, allowing my expression to consume me. The experience of writing this was quite visceral and during the entire journey, I was in a trance. Writing is like a drug for me. I care not the outcome. I’m in it for the living expression, to exude a tale naturally and absolutely unforced. I know not what you call this story, but to me it is a slithering organism, a quivering slab of gelatinous ooze. I lived this as it was written, and was detached in a vacuum of becoming. This is my painting. Underlying all intention was a vibe of hope. I hope someone out there enjoys this and moreover, I simply want to give inspiration away.

FYI, the character Jessica or in full, Jessica Lenora Summer, is a major player in my novel. I revealed nothing about her, but rest assured she is responsible for my psychotic meltdown in this tale. She prays from of the kindness of her heart and her intention to save and nurture is authentic, but beneath her facade she is powerful and deceptive. Expect to know her slowly, because in truth, no human should ever even glance at her.

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Cliché and Bubbles

Marianna took a sip of her chamomile tea–a slight tinge of anger purposefully posed to hide her inner pain–she stopped typing, clearing her throat, “Hmm . . . but I want a strong female protagonist–not just wise from epiphany, but one who changes because of years of realization, overcoming her hatred of men. I freaking hate epiphany in a story . . . it’s such a cliché. And like Mrs. Talbot said in class, if you want to transcend common plot themes, formulaic structure and all the other common vehicles in all of fiction, the cure is to have characters you care about–characters who change.” She took another sip of tea and started biting her middle finger nail, “Give me another line.”

I plopped a thick chunk of iridescent cocaine onto the marble counter top, stretched a five dollar bill across it cupping the edges with my fingers and smashed the coke with a Bic lighter. I started chopping it into smaller pieces with Marianna’s eyes fixated, mesmerized in anticipation. I said, “Deconstruction.”

“Deconstruction?”

“Yes, I am deconstructing this chunk of Bolivian flake. It’s so funny–you do realize that everything, every theory, every literary concept including deconstruction is a cliché–life itself is a fucking cliché. Cliché and bubbles.”

She rolled up the five dollar bill to form a makeshift straw as I prepared her a fat line, “You said cliché and bubbles?”–leaning in, snorting her line, “Cliché and bubbles . . . explain what the hell that’s supposed to mean.”

I snorted an equally thick line, leaning my head back and plugging my left nostril with my pinky while tears trickled from my left eye. I took a sip of tea, “This happens every time I snort a line. I used to only use my right nostril until it started hurting every time I did, so I finally switched to my left–just like a protagonist who gets tired of boring sex with his wife and has to switch to a secret mistress every time he switches snorting cocaine to his left nostril. See, that could be a story right there but I digress.”

She giggled, “You’re married and snorting through your left nostril–and I suppose I could be thought of as your whore . . . hmm.”

“Don’t change the subject or I will psychologically destroy you and write a New York Times best seller about your demise. Cliché and bubbles. Think about it, all the frivolous bullshit Mrs. Talbot says is all cliché. Even her own book, The Inner Lotus, is so ridiculously contrived, I almost committed suicide after reading it. Another boring love story where the characters change–all the action and story is revealed through conversation and several lives are intertwined against the backdrop of world war two. It’s much like your story, where you try to employ these same devices. After reading your entire manuscript, your attempt in revealing the character’s traits through pure conversation with hardly any description is quite pathetic.”

“What? Pathetic? I’m looking for positive criticism,” she says becoming noticeably agitated, her eyes looking glazed over from fifty hours of no sleep, “I’ve worked so hard on this . . . my first book . . . my dream.”

“Calm down girl, I’m not done. Bubbles. Think about how everything in life is a bubble–a bubble which eventually pops, after which both destruction and despair ensue–often followed by rejuvenation and fresh conditions of growth and change. Like the American economy . . . a credit bubble. Politicians, banks and corporate greed are working hard to patch that bubble so it can re-inflate only to burst again–maybe for the last time, allowing a new society to emerge from the ashes. Life is a bubble, we keep our friends in one, we live and move through many bubbles . . . pop!” I violently clapped my hands together–Marianna’s heart almost exploded, the sound of beating muscle muffled within her frail chest.

“You scared the shit out of me Bobby . . . you jerk off. My heart is beating like a jackhammer, but I’m not tired at all–even after being awake almost a week. So how does all this help my story?”

“Marianna . . . why does your main character hate men? I’ve noticed all your main characters in every story you write hate men. You’re not married, you don’t have or want a real boyfriend–as you always say . . . hmm. Something is going on with this entire motivic movement throughout all your stories. I’m your classmate, study partner and boy toy…your male whore. You will never love me, and it’s simply because I’m a man. I think you really do hate men in real life. Women who were molested as children by their fathers are often promiscuous and have sex only relationships–much like the relationship we have now. Who knows, maybe you hate me, maybe you’re plotting to murder me.”

She’s too high to understand, but I’ve stirred up something disturbing in her psyche, some deeply buried pain in her past–I can almost hear the gears of repressed memories churning in her subconscious. She carefully plans her words in a feeble attempt to mask her inner turmoil, “My protagonist, Danielle, well . . . her father didn’t love her. He didn’t love her mother. I cover it somewhat, but wanted to leave the dark moments to the imagination of my readers. I think it best to not reveal everything.”

I wickedly smirk, “You need to delve into this darkness. It is the missing ingredient.”

She seems transfixed on my words, “Really? You really think so?”

“Yes indeed. Add some twisted concepts of transgressional fiction in the story. How about this: Danielle is seeing a hypnotherapist, who has her in seriously deep regressive therapy, unlocking horrifying events in her past. She remembers her mother being raped by her father while she was a little girl. Her father locks her head in a vice so she is forced to watch–her eyes taped open–hour after hour of sickening rape and terror. Later on in the story, amidst marrying her dream man and supposedly cured from her torment, she has repeated dreams that when she was born, her mother was at home and had no medical help–the nearest hospital too far away for her to ever reach. Her mother needs a cesarean section, but cannot get one. The baby Danielle, who as an adult known for her strong will–the strong will you wanted her to have as a character trait–is actually born with adult teeth, a rare trait only one in two-thousand babies are born with–eats her way out of her mother’s womb with her freakish adult teeth, devouring her uterus and organs. The doctor finds baby Danielle cradled in her mother’s blood sodden, hollowed out cavity–pop goes the bubble. She wakes up–a repeating dream from which she cannot escape, but tells no one. The repetitive nightmare is a reflection of her own will to fight . . . to live and escape from her pain–to escape from her bubble . . . her prison of misery.”

Marianna is in tears, unable to speak, her hands trembling while she takes a sip of chamomile tea to calm her nerves. Seemingly almost in shock, she says, “Bobby . . . my real mother died when I was born, from a c-section. She bled to death on the operating table.” More tears gush forth.

“I’m not done Marianna. Draw some parallels, powerful parallels between her own desire to not hate men and deconstructing her own past, discovering why she’s so fucked up. The whole story can end with a reverse deconstruction, that ties the entire plot together–she puts the pieces together, constructing her life in an amalgamation of psychotic insanity and quest for hope and love. Her final dream of eating her way out, like a lizard from an egg shell–a second birth if you will, a birth to escape from her torture–is the most intense episode ever. She remembers how her mother’s flesh and blood tasted. She is unsure what is real: did she actually kill her own mother to save herself–a testament to her own will–did her father really rape her mother? Did your father rape you Marianna? Back to your story–maybe Danielle is so confused, her father actually raped her, not her mother–and the psychological scars are so deep, reality is a grisly pipe dream. They find her in the end after cannibalizing her husband the first night of her honeymoon, screaming I’m sorry mother over and over. She finally constructs her past and loses her sanity. Write a final paragraph about how she is shrouded in a straitjacket in an insane asylum. Weave all this transgressive violence into the framework of a standard, formulaic love story plot. That would be fucking awesome.”

Marianna suddenly stands up, tears streaming down her face, ridden with tortuous anguish, “Leave Bobby . . . leave and never come back . . . get the fuck out!” She throws her tea cup at me and collapses on the floor . . . sobbing. Jeez, I guess I stirred up some old feelings–well cry me a freaking river.

The following week in Mrs. Talbot’s creative writing class, Marianna wasn’t there. She announced that Marianna had committed suicide–she slit her own belly open with a straight razor while in the bathtub. The coroner said it was the most gruesome suicide he’s ever seen in his entire life. She had so much cocaine in her system, she almost gave herself a complete hysterectomy before she died. Since cocaine thickens blood, her rate of blood loss was slowed, allowing her to almost complete her self-operation. Marianna was such a cool chick – maybe I’ll write a story about her one day.

*This story is purely fictional. I wanted a short story based on transgressional fiction and conversation about people talking about writing a story based on conversation and transgressional fiction–my favorite type of fiction. I do realize it is not truly transgressional because the escape from societal norms is not complete, but does contain many elements of that peculiar genre. In a story this short, there’s not much room for character development – but it’s the best I could do with this situation. Because there is something wrong with me, I wrote myself into the story like I usually do in my blog fiction. In many ways, my character is a murderer, though easily gets away with it. Through psychological awareness, I keenly unlock Marianna’s pain, and she commits suicide–taking advantage of a mentally damaged woman while in a cocaine stupor – sickening indeed. If a real person did that for real, they would deserve to die. May your day be filled with joyful happiness!

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My Crying Flower

I mindlessly soared across the astral vortex, without purpose, without fear and without debility, the totality of consciousness as my guide. Fully aware of my dream the previous thirty-seven times, this one is no exception. I usually wake up before diving into the whirlpool of continuum, but not this time. The whirling, seething particles felt both alive and tractable, my innards affluxing towards the convergence.

I was hurled like a comet, splattering across tinctured sanguine horizons, twirling madness bursting through the cleft of eternity. I was violently hammered into myself. My flesh peeled by solar winds while crystalline ice frosted my thoughts, fragmenting my essence. There was no terminus. The journey was not one of external voyage, but of inward ambiguity. Had I found something powerful, consequential or revolutionary? Was this but random neural firing, an electrical overload betwixt my axons and dendrites, the chemical constructs of dreaming? I was absolutely awake inside my dream. I was touching, it seemed, the very fabric of time/space.

I stood on a perpetual slabs of blackness, an empty vacuum of desolation. I traversed the mountains of madness, floating in my still pool of serenity. It stands to reason all things have an opposite or reflective contradiction. I have long sought this mirrored reality, the antithesis of what is.

Across the astral fluxion of churning kaleidoscopia, stratified layers of multitudinous flowers bloomed in maddening arrays of luminescence. Liquid aroma washed my soul—iced perfumes of netherworld delectation—beautiful crimson waterfalls lavished my dreams as I fell into oblivion. Endless existences of flowered red, silken rainbow petals in silver storms, tornadoes of ice and fires of cardinal rain.

My Crying Flower

My Crying Flower

My velocity quieted into slowness as I was drawn forward, a pinpoint of brilliantly ripened vermilion, a single flower so red, so perfectly alive . . . yet so alone. I leaned forward to smell its endless beauty, to inhale its intoxicating vapors, its hypnotic secret of scarlet dreams. My desire to pick this flower was unbearable, unfathomable and surmounting.

I grasped it’s stem with powerful intent. It cried in florid pain. It spoke to me in psychic tongues–its fiery tentacles shrouding my soul; veiled in rubescent shimmer. It sobbed do not sacrifice me. A billow of icy tears drizzled in cool rush, interleaving my warm fingers.

It was my flower.

My crying flower.

I am truly thankful to have the ability of lucid dreaming. Some call it astral projection, out of body experience and many other terminologies. I know not why or how, but it is majestic and beautiful. My favourite colour is red. Though it is somewhat dark, it is also strangely beautiful, exciting, intoxicating and wicked. I always find the potency of fiery scarlet in my dreams. I wish everyone could see what I see.

*The flower picture is from Blusti.

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Superglue Psycho

And finally, I had reached the apex of primordial psychoses – staring at my evil father as he lay passed out drunk on his ancient paisley patterned Sears & Roebuck couch. I sneered wicked at him – superglue in one hand and a finely honed straight razor in the other. Before I committed this deleterious act of venomous hatred, memories of woeful affliction glissaded betwixt my sadistic thoughts. I remember what you did father. I remembered Halloween night 25 years earlier…
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Tears and a Kitten Named Sammy

Searing wind gushed through my hair as I drove along the 1-40 connector – my trembling fingers barely able to hold the steering wheel – my life falling apart. My air-conditioner stopped working minutes earlier, adding layers of torment to an already scarring afternoon. I cannot believe they fired me. I went through the memory over and over…how could they care so little? Why does this always happen to me?
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Midnight Exorcism

I slithered through the back alleys of viscid blackness – a thickened spume of midnight – echoes of terror trickling from the frothing gutters of silence. From betwixt the stench of fermenting decomposition, a pungent-sweet dankness rolled in from the dead-end crevasse to my left. An aromatic cannabinoid, poisoning the nostrilic apertures of my hemorrhaging withdrawals.

I peregrinated through the vastness – a chasm of netherworld delectation, sweetening the primeval atmosphere of scorching desire…and I heard a silken female voice, “Oh man…this is so sweet. A hint of pine, spice and warmth – yet not saccharine or harsh.”
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