Books, Dreams and Nightmares, Experimental, Fiction, Hardboiled, Short Stories, short-short, surreal, Weird, Young Adult

The Oracle

As I walked up the beach I saw him lying there, with a beatific smile playing across his face.

He had quite obviously been badly beaten. His long, shaggy blonde hair lay spread around his supine head like a spread of angels’s wings. His eyes, though dark and purplish and swollen, bespoke the reveries of a man on the edge of emotional bliss. His arms were held out stiffly, oddly above his head.

He was naked, perhaps from having his clothing stolen. Or perhaps it was just his custom to walk around the seaside naked. A any rate, his was a well-muscled physique. It was a pity he couldn’t have protected himself, I thought.

Near his left arm, and disappearing up the beach, two sets of footprints were pressed into the sand. Furthermore, it looked as if these long-gone wretches had been dragging something along between them.

“They have kidnapped my Greta,” he said, still wearing the same dreamy expression. “They got the jump on us. Both of then savage, almost inhuman. They whipped me to semi-conscious stupor, and put a collar on my girl. I fear they drag her away to sell her into slavery.”

All of this came as shocking news to me. I said,” Well why are you just lying there? Why don’t you get up and go after them?”

But it was as if, in his strange repose, he had found some sort of blissful yogic position, wherein he was deeply engulfed in a meditative semi-trance. He said things like, “Sometimes they whip you with their horse-hair whips. Sometimes they burn you. Often, they kill you outright, and eat your bones after roasting them over an open pit. Maybe you will quaff a gallon of their bile, be humiliated in front of all their comrades, or marched in front of a cliff side wall and shot. Whatever the case–”

And his smile widened as he continued:

“Sometimes they beat you. Sometimes brand you. Often, they will burn you, or bleed you, and always with careful attention to exacting the uptmost pain and punishment from each quivering nerve ending…”

And because I suddenly realized he was quite mad from torture, I pushed onward, following the footprints in the sand, listening to the surf rumble and thunder across the rocky, battered coast.

Books, Dreams and Nightmares, Experimental, Fiction, Humor, Short Stories, short-short

The Naked

A man was invited to speak, at length, in a university lecture hall, expounding upon a topic he was generally believed to be an expert at.

As he began his lecture, he stepped from behind the lectern, and was met by blank stares, uncomfortable confusion, and one stifled scream from a young woman in back. Otherwise, a row of faces turned uncomfortably red as they stared, whispered amongst themselves, and thrust their hands over their mouths.
“And so, to summarize what I’ve just been saying…Is something wrong?”

He looked down at himself suddenly, as a student then pointed at the area below his waist. To his horror, he sees that the pants he was certain he wore on his way to university that very morning had suddenly, mysteriously vanished. He was entirely naked below the waist, with not even his comfortable boxers to hide his nudity.

Even worse, he looked down at his genitalia, and realizeed they were shrunken, stunted; they had retracted inside his body, so that only the tip of his penis was showing amid a descended tumescent globule of flab; He, in effect, had the penis of an infant.

He felt the blood flush his cheeks, felt sickening horror grip him as his heart raced, and he withered in mortification. Unbelievably, because he had a job to do, he cleared his throat, continued speaking–

“…Now, as I was saying, the periphery of the frontal lobe is circumvented by the ventricle…”

He continued his lecture. The Professor, who had been watching all of this from a corner of the room, standing, his hands folded across his waist, seemed oddly, curiously, satisfied. The students, uncertain as to whether or not this was somehow all a part of some psychological screening they hadn’t been made aware of, continued to slowly scratch out their notes–although not many worked up the courage or resolve needed to engage or ask questions.

Later, he walked across the bustling campus at midday, still nude below the waist; unapologetic, unashamed. He spied, coming toward him, a young man clad only in pajama bottoms and a filthy, heavy bed spread. The young man looked quite dirty.

He stopped him, asked, “And did you just seem to find yourself in this predicament when you woke up today, or what?”

The young man with the pajama bottoms said, “Right you are, sir! I seem to be compelled to go about like this, day after day. It’s like some sort of secret fetish. I can’t control it. I feel a hideous compulsion…”

Hideous or not, thought the man that was nude below the waist, some fellows always seem to get off easy.

Books, Dreams and Nightmares, Experimental, Hardboiled, Holographic Universe, Short Stories, short-short, surreal, Weird, Young Adult

An Echo

And he is doing pushups on the floor, grit and dirt eating into his palms. McGavin is on the phone, having a miniature freakout. Pure white suit, like a Latin American coke dealer, and a white fedora. Black tie flops, like a danglin, limp penis, between the flannel folds of his pristine white shirt.

Suddenly, a knock–

“Sure get up. Get it. Don’t make I’m even in here,” he says, putting down the receiver and sneaking into a dark corner. This room looks, for all the world, like Jim’s middle school nurse’s office.

The face at the door was young once, but has settled won into stoney ugliness. Bald head and orange tracker suit, just like all the other fish.

“Hey, I hate to interrupt you little game. But F— and his boys say they comin’ for you, punk. Fish. You better watch your ass man. Not that that’s gonna help.”

Jim closed the door on him and his laughter. McGavin told him, “You better go to PC. It’s the only place they can’t get to you.”

“They can get to me anyway.” said Jim, but he went out, McGavin in tow, and down the length of the street, hard black faces popping up as if they were snapped from the end of invisible strings.

An obese guard stood impassively near the exit at the far end. Jim knew F—- was following him, so cool, so sedate, and F— was whispering,

“I’ll get you, baby. Don’t matter where they take you, or how deep the hole they bury you in. Don’t matter if you in PC or not–”

Jim approached the guard, passed him a note he pretended to pick up from the floor. But everyne saw that, he thought.

Later, as he stood alone, he could hear F— in his mind, the words resonating in the core of his consciousness and refusing, like a whispered curse for insanity, to depart–

“You think they can hide you, Jim? You think you’re safe ANYWHERE? I hate to break the news to you, but I KNOW you Jim. I know how you can’t connect anywhere, with anyone, anyplace you’re sent. Face it, you never will. You’re not solid, peckerwood. You’re just…just an echo. YOU’RE AN ECHO, JIM!”

And that was true in more ways than the speaker realized.

Books, Fiction, Hardboiled, Humor, short-short, Urban Legends

The Mook and His…Ahem…

Okay, I got a story’s gonna kill ya, right? You’ve heard the old saw, the one about the butcher and the string of sausages? Like, it’s supposed to be an urban legend, like something that just gets passed on from a friend of a friend’s cousin’s chiropractor.

Well, the story is true. Right, right, I know, but, I swear it happened in my hometown. Let me just tell you how it all went down.

There was this new kid working at the butcher shop. he was some stinky, sweaty, pig-like guy, some meshuggah meat head–so maybe it’s fitting he should work for the butcher. Kid always smelled like Vitalis and cheap cologne, cigarettes. I think he was probably one of the first guys I knew smoked grass, but that’s neither here nor there, right?

Anyway, this old bat Grizelda Van Bilderbutt or some such, comes in one day, and the kid is just looking to get fired. Doesn’t like real work, right? So he has this string of sausages, and he slips the end of it under his apron, so the last sausage is hanging out the bottom of the apron he’s wearing, which is all bloody anyway.

So he goes to make his deliveries, and he’s got this thing hanging out the bottom of his apron, which looks like…well, you know damn well what it looks like. And he delivers a pound of liverwurst this way, and the woman opens the door, and she sees his…sausage hanging down. Oh man! She could just barely contain her embarassment as he put the package of beef livers or whatever on the end table in the foyer, and this middle class wifey is standing there with her hand over her mouth.

So this chump goes back to the butcher shop, and he’s laughing all day until this old bat comes. Well, let’s go back to where we started. Old Grizelda or whatever comes in, and he’s standing at the butcher shop counter, and she wants some liverwurst or whatever, and then she sees his sausage-schlong hanging out the bottom of his apron. Her head spins, but she thinks it’s all some kind of terrible mistake.

“Young man!” she says, snapping her fingers. “Young man, you, you’re…you must really…” but she can’t get the words out. He suddenly grins a big grin, looks down at the sausage hanging out the edge of his apron, and then, grabbing it, says, “Oh, this old thing? Here, let me cut you off a slice!”

And he throws his phoney shlong up on the counter, and whacks the end of it with his cleaver.

The old bat suddenly turns as white as a sheet. Her old, skinny, withered body goes as stiff as a board, her hands splayed out above her head in terror…and she drops dead on the spot!

Well, the Mook is suddenly kind of scared. Gee, I mean, he didn’t MEAN to kill her; it was just a joke, after all.

Now, back then, there was this case of this guy, what stole a corpse from the cemetery and lived with it in his house. After he died, the cops found out all about it, and that he was…ahem, well, you know what he was doing to that dead body. But the Mook butcher’s assistant must have had some odd ideas that this is waht he could do to…I don’t know.

Anyway, he gets down. Maybe he starts to perform CPR. I dunno. But he starts kissing this old bat, he sort of starts…liking it. And then he starts vigorously rubbing the chest. You know, CPR and all.

Well, before you know it, there’s a sausage being slipped beneath his apron, a one hundred percent MAN MEAT sausage! Yep. You guessed it: a little necrophiliac lovemaking.

And, much to his surprise, after a few moments of this, the old bat (who was as dead as corned beef) starts to…move! And she’s breathing, coughing up some nasty bile, and the Mook, who can’t believe it, jumps up from, er, ah, his activity, and says, “I-I thought you were dead!”

And suddenly, the Butcher, who was rumbling around in the back, cutting wind and liverwurst, I dunno, comes out and says, “Whatsa goin’ on around here? You–”

He points to the old lady, who has sat up and is getting up slowly from the dirty floor.

“I was dead,” she said flatly.

“You,” the Butcher said again, astounded, “you tellin’ me you was…dead on my floor?”

She nodded her assent. The Mook nodded too. It was a darn strange day.

“Well…did you see Heaven, or Hell?”

The old lady cussed, spat, and said, with a bitter look on her face, “Heaven? Hell? Hell! I saw this big oaf humping and jumping me, is what I saw! Him and his dirty jokes…”

But the Butcher, instead of calling the cops, which he probably should have done, said, “Well…it must have been some magical lovemaking, because it brought YOU back from the dead!”

And they both agreed. The Mook, who was sweating bullets, standing there, certain he was headed to state prison, breathed a sigh of relief. The Butcher suddenly turned to his resurrected customer, said, “Hey, you know, we really ought to try and cash on on this thing. Dontcha think?”

And Grizelda Van Bilderass smiled, a horrible, toothless grin.

Soon, the Mook was standing all day in the exhibit in the back, his “Miracle Member” thrust through a glory hole in a canvas curtain, adorned with pictures of a male Adonis whose love making could bring women, even old and gnarled grannies with one foot in the grave and one on a banana peel, BACK FROM THE DEAD.

And Japanese tourists with brand new Polaroid cameras ALL wanted their pictures taken with the mook’s…eh, you know what they wanted their pictures taken with. I guess those pics still circulate. Underground, you know. Anyway, it’s all true. Honest.


The Net

Originally posted on Passages:

The net.

I’m caught in the net,
Captured like a fish;
Trying to breathe the air
Up here is not healthy;
My lungs could burst at any time.

You and I discuss whys and wherefores,
(Was punk better when it was slower or faster?)
And yet we cannot emerge at a consensus at what constitutes reality.
Perhaps because this is only a dream,
And you’ll only exist for the few seconds it takes me to blink open and tumble over,
Roll out of bed, and decide that the fish is better off alone,
Rolling through the distant waves,

“Sea bound and sunlight dappled, emerging through the crest of a churning splash as leaps of narcolepsy send the cable of thought down through inky fathoms to emerge, once more, with something at the end of an almighty hook.”

And that hook is thought. And speared at the end of it is…

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