Short stories

Pigs Shall Inherent the Earth

You ask a myriad of quotidian questions but today is not a quotidian day Oh no not today not a quotidian day today it is butter smeared around the arsehole a wimp knowing that the mirror is mendacious afterall a penurious couple sharing Chinese for the first time and your wife (now not much to look at except the varicose veins swelling pregnancy three hairy chins nothing to dream over lust over come over) thinks you have found out about her affair which you have but you care not a fig about the man with the little twig and the ridiculous eschewed wig but these machinegun splatter (if only) questions have nothing to do with the affair and Betty is again perplexed and next it is the kids (Kids! Lambs to the Slaughter) turn and of course Mike wants to go back to bed and jerk off and Carol is on the telephone talking to her good-for-nothing boyfriend (wears makeup and listens to music that tells him to commit suicide (if only)) and Peter is tucked up in bed dreaming of tractors and diggers and Oh boy he’s drooling stupid cunt so it’s only right that he should start early tractors and diggers (he’ll keep them nice and oiled with drool).  So you’ve pointed the spotlight you’ve done the SS routine twisted arms pulled ears produced tears caused all kinds of fears and even played with Betty’s boobs (sagging pendulums) and so it’s off to the shower. You’ve no dignity left so you jerk off picturing Betty sucking on that leafless twig and it is all yes O yes and Betty walks in but you don’t stop no you go to the hop to the bop causing a great slop and the last time Betty saw you like this was on your honeymoon when she said it hurt and was red raw and you just stuffed it in there. You might not be embarrassed but she is. Dry and smelling of lotion you stand afore the mirror and you say things will get better Oh they have got to get better surely they will get better well Boy they can’t get any more fuckedup. You put on your pajamas and say that you will wear the grey suit tomorrow and Betty says something fatuous (always fatuous and reads Elle) about the time and you tell her it is going to be a busy day tomorrow and she goes into the bathroom undresses brushes her teeth before she can say goodnight you are asleep. Here you are happy. It is a troubled sleep but nobody will know. Betty climbs into bed and you are unaware. Reads Elle. You are standing on 4th street and you are naked it’s the same dream over and over again you are always on 4th street and you are always naked and your penis is hard throbbing hard but a burnt blackened bratwurst.

You awake around three in the morning in a cold sweat with the machete to your throat the obols placed on your eyes your penis stuffed in your mouth how is it going to end you want to know Oh God (you do not believe in God you abandoned God when God abandoned you) how is it going to end. You think about getting up but you don’t have the energy you think of slipping it into Betty that burnt blackened bratwurst but sleep is welcomed back even though it is a Trojan horse and even before the first Z you’re right back on 4th street naked as the day you were born with that burnt blackened bratwurst spitting and drooling.  So you wake up when you should not too early definitely not late and Betty has been superseded by her foul smell and the camel humps in the mattress and you’re already showered dried teeth brushed before the fear can impinge.  Once upon a time putting on a suit was exhilarating now it is like standing before a wall and having a bunch of kids practice their pitching like being a biscuit in a cum factory like the arsehole at a gangbang the fabric burns deep burns burns burns.  

Lately you have been eating like a pig with gastroenteritis you start even before sitting down snorting grimacing drooling Here he goes the old human trashcan thinks Mike and Heart attack city here we come thinks Carol and The race is on thinks Pete. You’re acting the pig but your dignity was stripped away many months ago and now you’re oinking all the way to the door. Betty will take the kids to their schools you once did the drive but a couple of months ago you told Betty that you wanted to use the bus you enjoy the ride and the company you told her that you had joined a group a bus group Betty laughed but conceded it was a good idea you having friends you having friends and Betty doesn’t mind that now after work you get together (your fucking friends) before the bus and have a couple of drinks she’s fine with it now when you get home you’re in a better mood (and the little twig has licked her fig). Off to work. Betty places a kiss upon your forehead she’s been doing it for twenty years (now her lips are painted) her lips are glowing embers the pain is too much burns but you don’t flinch you welcome the pain you deserve the pain you luxuriate in the pain. (On the spit choking on the Apple.) Have a good day at work says Betty (sans mockery) bring home the bacon.

On the bus you act important you act as though you have the world on your shoulders the canaille under your shaved heels a penis that tickles ribs and knocks out yankee doodle dandy and you hurry head down up 4th street fighting off that clown that frown that noun. It is amazing how quickly you dematerialize nobody gives you a second glance (it’s the times) but under the pink fluff behind the huge belly behind the snout behind the huge grin behind the blank eyes under the sailor cap you know you know you wallowing in the sweat afore the pink big ass without the hole the twirling tail you know the disgust the shame shame is a funny thing to some shame is a perpetual rain fall that drenches for others shame is an absent friend shame can be the torturer shame the nagging wife shame is that clown the follows you into that interview and pulls down your pants shame is that star linebacker that pushed your face into the mud shame is the business man that huffs at your tie shame is the prostitute that collapsed into a mess of laughter at your naked frame shame is that cheap pop song that won’t leave you alone shame is the turd that won’t flush shame just won’t hush.

Saul Waters

Short stories


For a second maybe less his mind is as busy as a Pieter Bruegel painting. He sits up. Puts down the book he was reading. Blaise Pascal could not sit in a room for long period of time. If he were forced to stay in a room for a long period of time a deep melancholy overwhelmed him. He can be on the sofa for days without the slightest hint of melancholy. He is not going for a walk. His shoes are in the other room. It could be raining. Kant walked all the time at the same time; his neighbors could set their watches by this ritual. He stands up. It was not hunger, it could have been hunger, but now the idea of food repels him. It is dark, but not the time for bed. He has been obsessed with cartography of late. On the coffee table, stacked high, are many books on the art and the history of cartography. The book on top of the stack is a book on Johannes Schnitze. A book is open on the coffee table. A page shows the wall painting of Çatalhöyük. The space between the coffee table and the sofa is sufficient for him to stand in. His back aches, pins and needles impel him to move and he marches on the spot until the pins and needles cease while looking at a painting of Canterbury Cathedral that is over the television. The painting is nothing special artistically, aesthetically, but it reminds him of his time spent at Canterbury. He sees Tybalt’s ball. There was a time when Tybalt would chase the ball around the front room for hours. Now Tybalt is bored of the ball. He is sure a cat can be bored. He too would be bored chasing a ball around the front room. He passes between Scylla and Charybdis and stops at the painting of John Mandeville that hangs on the wall. The traveler points toward the kitchen. Maybe he stood up to make himself a cup of tea.  He is addicted to tea. The book he was reading was by Xavier de Maistre.  Maybe if he were to have a cup of tea he could continue with his reading of Voyage autour de ma chamber.  He looks at the bookshelf behind the sofa. The books, if he were to read them, would change his views, Leon Battista Alberti, Euclid’s Optica, Nostradamus, Vitruvius’ Ten Books on Architecture, John Pecham’s Perspectiva communis and Bacon’s Opus Majus. He squints and the room changes dramatically.  His wife hates the bookshelf. He must admit the bookshelf is in disarray and is very dusty. He got up to smoke. He picks up the cigarette packet and lights a cigarette and suddenly thoughts of Frigyes Karinthy impinges. He smokes and thinks so hard about Utazás a koponyám körül that his head starts to hurt. The pain is immeasurable. He can no longer smoke. He drops the cigarette in the ashtray, which is on the coffee table. With his thumb, he kills the coals. A last wisp of smoke ascends in gothic swirls. He watches as the pain wanes. He had no real intention of smoking. He walks to the window. He parts the curtains with a hand. He looks out of the window. It is now dark. The glow of the city looms over the darkness like an ignis fatuus. It is a very short distance to the television from the window. It might seem strange to compare this journey from the window to the television with that of Sir John Mandeville’s journey to the Holy Land, but I feel it can be justified. Say that the space between the window and the television is built up of small cubes of air containing small particles of dust. Say these small cubes are 1 to 3 cm along an edge, I am thinking of the common dice, well then I have no idea, and dare not conjecture the number of small cubes it would take to fill the space between the window and television. He places a hand on the television. His wife’s shoes are forlorn and incongruous at the foot of her chair. He can still see her indentation in the leather. She is upstairs, sleeping. He wonders what she is dreaming. He wants to believe she is in 9 Cities & the Sky.  It is his favorite structure of Italo Calvino’s Le città invisibili. He leaves the city and travels back to the coffee table. He stops and looks at the wall painting of Çatalhöyük. The rug he is standing on is mostly red. The rug was expensive. They bought the rug in Turkey. They were there for the Hagia Sophia. He remembers only that had to carry the rug for eight hours while they traipsed through the Hagia Sophia. They went to a café afterward and smoked some tobacco. He cannot remember the name of the café. He tries but futility is inevitable. His mind is more Swiss cheese than. It was a long time ago. Ballard’s drowned giant, Gargantua and Pantagruel supping, Tolstoy’s retreating French Army, no: the coffee table. A sigh loud reverberates. Fatigue weighs heavily upon his limbs. He picks up the dead cigarette. Still, no. He puts the dead cigarette back in the ashtray. Smoking can be boring. Talking can be boring. He was at a great party. It was Christmas Eve night. Everybody was so happy. He started a conversation with a writer. “Didn’t Mikhail Lermontov say that the British created boredom?” said the famous writer. He had to shrug. He had not read Lermontov. He keeps away from the Russians. Their books are always long and have too many characters. He told the writer this. The writer sighed softly, almost Shakespearean, maybe too Shakespearean, maybe a hint of the Sophoclean. He finally finds the energy to walk around the coffee table and again he finds himself in the space between Scylla and Charybdis. Evelyn Waugh took a delight in walking in the footsteps of Arthur Rimbaud. Evelyn Waugh even tried to emulate Martin Eden. I mean the swimming out to sea to end one’s life. Unlike Martin Eden, Evelyn Waugh turned back. I think a jellyfish stung him. He collapses onto the sofa. Marquis de Sade wrote The 120 Days of Sodom or the School of Licentiousness with his eyes closed and with only one hand free. Did he get up to turn on the television, to find a pornographic movie, to masturbate? He slips a hand down between his trousers and skin. He feels his soft penis. He strokes it. He closes his eyes and sees Scheherazade on the sand dunes. No, it was not to masturbate. There is no life down there. He sighs. He removes the hand. He laces the fingers behind his head. Sleep is far away, as far away as Quivira and Cíbola. He opens his eyes. Once again his head is as busy as a Pieter Bruegel painting. He sits up. Why did he get up in the first place? It was not to eat, to drink, to smoke, to travel, to masturbate.  The answer comes in a fulguration. All obfuscation is burnt away. It was to write this.

Paul Kavanagh

(first published in Black Sun Lit – Vestiges_02: Ennui)

Short stories

A Surprising Assignation (a play in one act)

Kant:  Two alien males are at an alien bar smoking alien cigarettes and drinking alien alcohol.

Lampe: Alien to you may be, but  

Kant: One of the aliens is exhausted. He has just returned from earth.

Lampe: Oh yes much like your trips to Thailand and Bangkok I bet?

Kant: The other alien is slightly older – a hundred earth years. He has never been to earth but plans on a visit. The two alien males are related – all living matter is related on this alien planet.

Lampe: Yawn. Yawn. Yawn. All the lights have been turned out and everybody has gone home well done.

Kant: The Aliens do not speak English, but for now, English will suffice.  

Lampe: And English names please I hate Alien names like qwteterb or :::”:”::”:””:.

“I bumped into this lovely being and I said to her I want to make love,” said Edward (the fatigued alien).

“Love?????” said Tom (the older alien).

“Sex,” said Edward,

Lampe: Aha! More like it!

Kant: “But we are so different she said,” said Edward, “So I told her I was form-blind being an Alien and she said she had never heard of form-blind being from earth.”

Lampe: What?

Kant: “I told her it was like color-blindness,” said Edward, “She told me that when a male wants to stick his thing into a female’s thing the male must regale the female until gorged.”

Lampe: I need to meet this girl!

Kant: “You really would do it for liquid and sustenance I said to her” said Edward, “and she nodded affirmative.”

Lampe: That’s my kinda girl!

Kant:  The Aliens emptied their alien glasses and purchased more alien alcohol.

“We made sweet love for eight of their moon’s journeys,” said Edward.  

“What was the girl’s name?!?!?!?!?!” said Tom.

“Hippopotamus,” said Edward.

John Sweeney

Short stories


William Smith-Millcocethe

Short stories

The Third of May 1808


1.This is the reason why we fight. Keep an eye on Arthur. Not a flinch. Hard as nails is Arthur. Don’t leave his side been through it all copy him. See how he stands how he holds the rifle. I wish they would stay dead. The groans the moaning the crying. I wish that fellow would move back. Why do they have to be heroes? I hate heroes. 2. I wonder what Vitalie is doing I’ll never bitch again about housework I won’t I promise I won’t bitch again I promise Vitalie. 3. Vermine vermine vermine vermine vermine vermine vermine vermine vermine vermine vermine vermine vermine vermine vermine vermine vermine vermine vermine vermine vermine vermine vermine vermine vermine vermine vermine. 4. The dead. Funny how the dead don’t move. Once saw a headless chicken. Ran around. Laughed so much I shit me pants. 5. The smell. Makes me hungry. That beef today was discoloured pork. Discoloured pork is better than fish.            Fish.     Beef.        Pork.     I wonder if I could ask Jacques for a slice of bread and may be some cheese and a glass of wine. Syphilis he has. Egypt. Those were the days. Egypt. I was lucky. She had a great pair. Firm. Lovely nipples. Couldn’t get it up. 6. Come on                        come on                                         come on                give the order.                                            Come on                                come on                  come                                      on                       stop moving.                                                        

Come on                                           come                              on                   let’s get this over with.                                                       I’m cold                                                      

look           at that      bastard                              come on                       give the

order      come on. I hate this waiting. come on                       come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on. 8. Gautier you can do this. Yes, Gautier you can do this. Gautier you can do this. Easy Gautier. Just pull the trigger Gautier. You’ve done it before Gautier. 8. I need a shit. Always happens. I hope that painter doesn’t show me about to shit my pants. Why would a painter want to paint us?

Paul Kavanagh

Short stories

Mundane Cruelty

John and Mary live in a small house. The small house has a back garden but no front garden. The back garden is a sea of verdant grass. When you step out of the front door you step onto a small pavement and then you meet the road. There are many perks to living in the city but this is not one of them. The cars and trucks and buses do not slow down and do not stop. It is very dangerous. The back garden is long and narrow. John wants to pour concrete over the grass but is not allowed.

            Mary is lying on the expensive sofa. She has two telephones on the go. She is working. Her face still holds last night’s makeup, smudged. The ramifications of last night twist her stomach. Dehydration and hunger impinge upon her and her thoughts.  She is wearing sweatpants and a college t. The penury of sleep pains Mary, exaggeratingly. 

            John is sitting on an old rocking chair, which he bought at an antique fair. He was “mugged” he says but he likes sitting in the rocking chair. The book he is reading, or pretending to read, is about Hell. His new obsession is Hell.

            Mary yawns and then parses. John feels for the person having to listen to Mary. After the yawn Mary scratches her nose.

            Sometime today John has to mow the lawn. It is in the 90s it will reach 100. John hates mowing the lawn. John believes he is allergic to grass. He is allergic to grass. Mary tells John to hire somebody to mow the lawn. John thinks that hiring somebody to mow the lawn is a waste of money. Ever since John was “mugged” by the man at the antique fair over the rocking chair he has vowed never to be “mugged” again. The allergic reaction to grass is: 1. A runny nose 2. Swelling under the eyes and tears 3. A puce taint to the face and neck 4. headaches 5. Toothache.  6. Diarrhea.

“Nobody goes to Hades anymore,” says John. “Once upon a time everybody went to Hades. But now nobody goes to Hades. Death is still with us. We all die. But the dead no longer go to Hades. It is an easy place to find Hades. We know that the entrance to Hades can be found in Avernus, a crater near Cumae. Andrea De Jorio drew a map. The map shows you how to get to Hades and how to get back from Hades and he showed the interior of Hades. Andrea De Jorio was obsessed with Pompeii. The city is a city of sex and death.  Heracles & Theseus & Odysseus & Aeneas paid a visit to Hades and returned.”

            Mary is busy with her telephone call. Work is all encompassing.  Her brain is on the rack and the words are water flowing over a stretched towel entering the neverclosing rictus. She is drowning.

            “When I am asked where I want to go I will tell them on my death bed to place the obols on my eyes for Charon and that I am off to Hades,” says John.  

            He laughs tenuously.

Mary doesn’t laugh. She heard but she finds John’s pretentious talk silly and boring plus the telephone call she is now participating in is dealing with a multimillion dollar lawsuit.

            This little charade of John’s was merely camouflage for John has a secret he wants to tell Mary, to spill, to unload. He bites his bottom lip. Sweat purls over his blistering skin. He reads a sentence and gains a modicum of equilibrium. The sentence is: Drexelius somehow pictured 100,000,000,000 burnt, flayed and gutted souls in the space of one cubic German mile.

            John and Mary married just as Mary was accepted into Law School. John was very happy for Mary and never complained because he knew that there would be a payoff and there was and everything worked out as planned.  Mary worked hard for those three years and after passing the bar joined John at the bank, although she works in a different department. Mary makes more money and has a higher position within the bank.  She is a ban two and he is a ban three (banker jargon).

            It’s too early for a glass of wine but maybe a beer. They both quit smoking three years ago. There was talk of babies and cancer. Mary’s mother “caught the cancer.” Mary talks about cancer as though you can catch cancer like a cold or flu.

            “It’s time,” says John not meaning to quote T.S. Eliot.

            The neighbor waters his back lawn obsessively. John never waters his lawn but the water from the neighbor’s lawn finds its way into John’s lawn. There is a slight slope.

            The secret is a kidney stone. The secret is a tumor. The secret is cancer. The secret has rabies and has razor sharp teeth and is eating away at John’s stomach.

            “After you have mowed the lawn we could go out somewhere to eat,” says Mary. She feels guilty that she ignored John and his fatuous obsession.

            “Yes,” says John. “We could get sushi.”

             John’s throat is boiling over with the secret. His tongue is swelling. His mouth is burning. It is as if some person, nefarious and Sadean, as poured battery acid into his mouth. His teeth ache.

            “I could phone Kim and Alan and see if they want to join us,” says Mary and before John can nod his head in the affirmative or say yes she is already on the telephone with Kim.  They work together at the bank.

            “Kim, do you fancy sushi?” says Mary.


            Mary looks at John and shakes her head and pulls a face of disappointment. John is relieved.

            The secret is rhizomatic. The secret is a patch of mushrooms awakening in a quagmire. The secret is a corolla which is opening up to the sun and whose dust is filling the air causing 1. A runny nose 2. Swelling under the eyes and tears 3. A puce taint to the face and neck 4. headaches 5. Toothache.  6. Diarrhea.

            John is just about to speak, his lips have parted, his tongue is animated, there are word heavy words in his throat, he is about to liberate himself of the secret, to divest the secret, to share the secret, when Mary says: “They will meet us afterwards, after you have mowed the lawn, for drinks.”

Mary is beautiful. I dapple her face with warts and zits and blackheads and carbuncles. She eyes me with anger and hurt. I ask her why she eyes me so. Mary shrugs her shoulders. I tell Mary to sit down. Mary sits down on a chair. The chair is old and squeaks like a mouse.  I tie Mary to the chair with thick rope. I remove Mary’s fingernails and toenails. I pinch Mary’s nipples and remove her eyelashes and shave her eyebrows.  I will commence after I have dealt with John to impregnate Mary. John is mine. So, I pull down his pants and kick him in the balls. John will not scream. I will once again kick him in the balls. The balls will swell. John will keep his lips shut and his eyes open. I will order John to turn. John turns. I kick John in the ass. John will move forward three paces. I will follow John and repeatedly kick him in the ass. I order John to turn and face me. I kick John in the balls, again. I order John to go out into the back garden and start mowing the lawn. I have decided to riff the pair of them.

Paul Kavanagh

Short stories


My father’s name is William, my mother’s Elsie. But I’m only four and I only hear them called Bill and Else.

     The car is a Kaiser. The Kaiser was, at one time, King of Germany. He was very smart, strong, rich; but he became bad and got killed. The only thing left of the Kaiser is this black car that smells like upholstery, gasoline, oil and the family – dog odor, fabric softener, deodorant; Dad’s tobacco wrestling Mom’s mint.

     I crawl in back. Mom and Dad up front. Dad behind the wheel.

     We’re on the highway. Going smooth. Nice and fast. Dad’s foot on the pedal steady as Washington on the one. If I lift my chin up – can just above the door see cars, trucks, billboards, whizz past.

     “I wish you wouldn’t smoke so much around the boy.”

     “Aw, hon…,” Dad punches in the lighter…

     I can’t see, the seat too high. But I know the sounds. They think I’m asleep. I excel at letting people think I’m asleep.

     “Here…,” pops ventilator, cracks window… “Crack yours, too, hon. Cross-ventilation’ll help. A diagram on a TV ad just last night showed smoking encourages good breathing. This only my second of the afternoon. Helps me relax. It’s a fact people think better relaxed. Do you really think under two thousand square feet enough?”

     Air rushes in, rushes over, rushes around. Cool May air. Let the eyes close. Hear better eyes closed.


     Hot metal stink spices slipstream. Feel – through swervelets – Dad reach for, pull out, hold the lighter to the tip of his Chesterfield; inhale; scrunch back in the seat; exhale. Snap lighter back into dash.

     Fill my lungs with comforting scent. Curl up into the driverside corner of the backseat.

     “I worry we can’t afford two thousand square feet. Should I roll it down any further – this OK?”

     “No, hon – you’re fine.” Dad puffs. “Well – I should get that raise next month; then the bank might approve for up to twenty-five. We could afford a television den, a rec room; and still the boy can have his own bedroom; plus probably a guest room – for when Rose and Phil come down and don’t feel up to driving back that night.”

     Across the backs of my eyelids movies jumble: moving again. First home apartment up in Greenbelt: three fingers still held up to show my age: standing alone in the empty hall closet, craning my head up in the dark; last look, everything loaded into the yellow-and-green Mayflower; one last look at nothing; my name shouted; they are looking for me, time to go, I’m the last thing to be loaded into the Kaiser for the move. “Here!” I holler at the unseen ceiling. “Here!… here!… hear!” calls back, dies away. Echo, I learn to call the “hear!” Echo the throb in the stomach that eats the throb.

     “No more apartments; no more row houses; no more semi-detached projects. Five years married and this our first house, Else!”

    Else!… Else!… Else! Echoing, fading, dying into something else; or else, or else…

     “Bill…” air rushing… “I don’t want us spending above our means. This will make our third move in less than four years. I’m sick of moving – packing everything up in boxes, loading up the car, unpacking and re-arranging everything, meeting strangers, losing old friends. This is our first house – I want it to be our last. Let’s not buy a mortgage we can’t afford!”

     A ford is another car. Not everybody owns a Kaiser. Another name for German is hun… hon… Some can only afford a ford; a ford, ford…

     “I don’t care…” air rushing… “You don’t even know how much the raise will be, Bill!”

     Bill money needed; bread kneaded; billboard; board, bored… bored with the creek at the ford, cross the creek on a board? No board aboard… back into the seat creak.

     Big-as-my-head hand – wading across air rushing – shaking my shoulder.

     “C’mon, son – wake up; let’s check out what could be your new home!”

     Air rushing now only memory; moments ago in the closet echo. Which came first – the memory? the echo? Check too money; check, check…

     Climb out of the car. Shake my head, blink. Check the surroundings. Overhead, under the sun, a bird in a tree in the parking strip twitters.

     Kaiser no longer moving. Kaiser parked. Again. Kaiser dead. Still.     

Willie Smith     

Short stories


She called me into the front room and told me to sit down in the comfy chair and then she leaned over and kissed me and then she kissed me again and then she kissed me again and then she kissed me again and then she kissed me again and then she kissed me again and then she kissed me again and then she kissed me again and then she kissed me again and then she kissed me again and then she kissed me again and then she kissed me again and then she kissed me again and then she kissed me again and then she kissed me again and then she kissed me again and then she kissed me again and then she straightened up, took a step back, rubbed her sore lips and then she said: “Now your story has more kisses than all the kisses in the  books by Jane Austen.”  

Paul Kavanagh

Short stories


Sit my nuts on a tee. Select a nine-iron. Smack the sack over the roof, beyond the blackberries, into the homeless camp. Good squirrel bait. Better to give than receive. Give myself, to stop the bleeding, a blowtorch job.

     Stuff my dick in a bottle rocket. Blast the organ off to orbit Saint Peter.

     Reach up in. Yank out the prostate. Feed the catch to a pitching machine. Swing through two. Sweetspot a slider – slug the slop into the next state.

     But I could still rape – rape’s root: SEIZE. Hire a tree surgeon to lop the limbs. Cauterize shoulders and thigh stumps rolling around on a hot plate.

     At least now I can’t procreate, can’t hurt a soul. Except, of course – since I’m still nuts, still a dick, still in a state of Ted Bundy’s quantum pussy – except with all this shit my tongue spatters.

     I do so love words to drop turdlike – screwing sentences received for the trespass of thinking strictly, of dreaming solely, in this our Anguish longwedge!  

Willie Smith

Short stories


We stacked the books in cardboard boxes. There were many, many books, all different types of books. We had not seen so many books. We were shocked at how many books had been constructed, books on how to kill and how to copulate even how to micturate and defecate. Books by the best minds of their generations. A book is a medium for recording information in the form of writing or images, typically composed of many pages (made of papyrus, parchment, vellum, or paper) bound together and protected by a cover. In the books we found earwigs and cockroaches and spiders and cobwebs and dust and leaves and the odd dry flower. For this poem I blame One Thousand and One Nights and Aladdin’s Wonderful Lamp and Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves and The Seven Voyages of Sinbad the Sailor and Miscellaneous Morsels from Youyang by Tuan Ch’eng-Shih and Les 120 journées de Sodome. We destroyed many books. Books disintegrated in fingers. Some metamorphosed into butterflies only to dissipate. Now they were dead the books were just books.

Lexi Velexa