Tuesday, January 10, 2012

The Unfortunate

By Andrew Danielsen

The man pulled. The man screamed. The man had “Wake Me Up Before You Go Go” stuck in his head, and this pissed him off more than the fact that he was about to lose his leg in a terrible way.
He was snapping his fingers, strolling along, doing his own boring thing, avoiding people as he usually does, when out of nowhere a louder snap cracked, then another. The first was the sound of the train tracks switching for an oncoming freighter. The other was the breaking of his ankle. He’d never felt this amount of pain.
“I’ve never felt this amount of pain!” 
Shut up, you. I got this..
Ten minutes had past since the unfortunate event, and after all of the screams and wails sounding much like Free Willy’s cries for mommy, he finally caught the attention of a couple kids walking a ways down the tracks. It was late at night so he couldn’t see who they were, but when the moonlight permitted so, he was disappointed to find out that they both had both their mouths and eyes sewn shut. Of course, just his luck.
He threw rocks at them, hitting each of them in their tightly sewn faces until they shot off into the sky like red rocket red rocket, and he proceeded to wail.
A few minutes later the man saw two police officers approaching and for the first time ever, he was happy to see them.
“Officers!” He yelped. Someone had obviously heard his cries and called the police.
“I’m in agony and I need help! Please stop all oncoming trains!”
The officers caught up to the man and stared in confusion saying not a word. This made the man irate.
“PLEASE! I don’t want to lose my leg!” He cried.
One of the officers whispered into his walkie then lit a cigarette. The other continued to stare, then grin, then back to staring. The man was so furious at this point and began to throw anything in his reach at them. First rocks, then a railroad spike, then a beer bottle. Just then the man heard the first signs of the train which was coming to collect his limb.
The men started jogging away to avoid the debris and have a little chat.
“So Mary left me for that professor with one arm, Billy Haiku.”
“Ouch.” Said the other in reply,
“Yeah, no bueno.”
“You gonna shoot her?”
“Yeah, probably.”
The train was now in sight, and the man became hysterical as Wham’s curse began again. He gave up on getting attention, knowing that everyone was against him and wanted to see the show.
ROOOOOAAAAARRRR! The train was about a hundred feet away and the man lied back knowing his fate.
The man screamed his final words. “OH…….MY!!!!!!”
By the time he got to God, the man passed out providing a loud exhale. He was then removed from the abandoned railroad tracks and taken to jail.
BIO:Andrew Danielsen is a guy, who's just a guy. No one out the ordinary. He likes to travel around with a backpack, make people feel uncomfortable for kicks, drinks bourbon religiously and is going to school to be a mortician. 

Monday, January 9, 2012

Along Came The Truth

By George S. Karagiannis

At the parking lot, the Yakuza assassins are waiting to torture professor Martin to death. Yakuza didn’t appreciate Professor Martin’s last published article regarding the tremendous consequences of coca-cola on pregnant women. When Professor Martin appears, they throw him down and force him drink water from the rusty pipes, pushing his face violently into the dirty street water; dogs had shitted there earlier.
“How does that taste, huh?” one of them asks him kicking his head deeper into the muddy pile.
It’s okit will soon end, Professor Martin thinks. His nose bleeds seriously and his skin and eyes almost melt in the burning asphalt. His skull slightly cracks. The water turns crimson red like an old Burgundy wine. In particular, the bloody-Mary red!
The Yakuza gang leader reveals a hand-crafted stiletto from his pants and starts cutting professor’s genitals with a sexual frenitis. This youngster used to wet his bed, torture animals and be abused by his father at his childhood; the tightest profile fit for a serial, tainted killer.
One perverted street artist somewhere across is drawing in real-time fashion the Yakuza assassins urinating at professor’s car and then kicking it to total destruction, after they are done with him.
The new design turns out to be a huge commercial success; in this advertisement, a group of teenagers drink coca-cola, drive in a badly kicked and urinated car, and strive to have a party in a suburban underground velvet place, where Yakuza is supplying everyone with ‘meds’, and they never stop dancing in the flickering rhythm of the candles, prepared for a ceremony worshiping the Antichrist.
That’s indeed someplace!
Because the peaceful people do not care about Sun blisters or blood in the streets or torn gloves or withered apples or aluminum cans thrown here and there. They like symmetry in their lives, instead.
We, all, have previously seen Professor Martin on the posters, by the walls.
Yes, we’ve seen him on the posters.
BIO: George S. Karagiannis was born in Thessaloniki, Greece at 1984. He finished the School of Veterinary Medicine and is currently a PhD student at the University of Toronto in Canada, studying the molecular mechanisms of cancer metastasis. He enjoys writing science fiction, mainly in the sub-genres of (1) hard science fiction, (2) bizarro and horror sci-fi and (3) apocalyptic/post-apocalyptic, but more often blending all those, together! His favorite science fiction author is Philip K. Dick, whom he has been reading since he was introduced in the field. He is also an abstractionist/surreal artist and his blog can be found here: http://abstractsur.blogspot.com/

Ode to Jonathan Byrd’s “Jason Statham Beat Me Up”

By Eric J. Guignard

 Jason Statham beat me up, too. I was completely engrossed reading an account of how Jason Statham beat up Jonathan Byrd. I thought to myself, "No way. No way could Jason Statham beat me up. Jason Statham is from England and everyone knows the English are pussies. I would just kick Jason Statham in the nuts." But then Jason Statham walked through the doorway behind me. Jason Statham can really sneak up on a guy. Maybe Jason Statham can even read minds. I instantly regretted thinking Jason Statham was a pussy. I tired to save myself. I told Jason Statham, "There are no Milky Way bars in this household!" It didn't work. Jason Statham kicked me in the face. I saw stars. They were shaped like Jason Statham's shoe. My legs shook and I pointed a finger at Jason Statham. "Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice!" I said. Jason Statham bit my finger. Then Jason Statham punched me in the face. I fell down. Jason Statham stood above me. Jason Statham looked so proud, heroic really. Jason Statham smiled at me and I saw how perfect and white Jason Statham's teeth were. I felt a twang of jealousy. Jason Statham must have a really good dentist. Then my dog, Rusty, walked in. Rusty was a mean rottweiler. "Get Jason Statham's nuts!" I yelled. Jason Statham just patted Rusty on the head and Rusty sat back, wagging his tail. Jason Statham sure has a way with animals. Jason Statham turned back to me and punched me in the face again. My nose collapsed. Blood shot out and a drop splattered on Jason Statham's white teeth. I felt vindicated. Jason Statham's teeth weren't so perfect now. Then Jason Statham kicked me in the nuts. I rolled into a little ball and cried. When I got up, Jason Statham was gone. I knew though… I knew Jason Statham didn't leave empty-handed. I saw the bowl on my table. It was empty. Then I realized: Jason Statham had beaten me up and took my salad. Jason Statham must be on a diet now.
Eric J. Guignard is an award-winning author and editor in southern California. Eric J. Guignard favors fiction short stories in the genres of horror, speculative, and young adult. Eric J. Guignard is editor of the acclaimed anthology, Dark Tales of Lost Civilizations (Dark Moon Books). Eric J. Guignard also writes research and knowledge-base articles in genealogy, woodworking, and ecology. Eric J. Guignard can move mountains. Eric J. Guignard can fly.

Eric J. Guignard is married and father to an adventuresome toddler son.

Please visit Eric J. Guignard at www.ericjguignard.com

Wednesday, January 4, 2012

A Change in Lifestyle

By D. Ross Noble

The visit to the doctor was a disaster.  I just opened the lab results and felt physically ill.  I walked to the bathroom scale which creaked when I stepped on it confirming I’d gained 63 pounds in one year.  My image in the mirror was a monstrous sight.  Lesions the size of nickels oozed a clear liquid and my nose was the size of a morel mushroom. For God’s sake, I had spider veins in my eyes and the bags under my hideous peepers looked like I had packed for a two month European tour.

I’d become the perfect foil for the beer belly joke.  “Hey look at that guy; he’s a dickey-do!  I finished the punch-line in my head, “his tummy sticks out more than his dickey-do”.  I had to look in the mirror to see all the pimples and sores around my crotch and on the fronts of my thighs.  I sneezed and blood-stained mucus ran down my lip while I snatched a Kleenex from a box near the bathroom sink to wipe away the foul liquid.

What had I done with the lab results?  My memory was getting worse….”I’m too damn young to have Alzheimer’s or dementia for Christ’s sake!”  I wandered into the TV room searching for the, ahhhh lab report, picked it up and flopped into the easy boy.  What had the doctor said during the visit?

“Charley, this is an epidemic.  The U. S. Department of Health has issued a national alert and nearly 9,000,000 American adults are showing the very same symptoms.  We don’t know what’s causing it.  Have you started vomiting blood yet?  It will appear to be almost black.”  I remember nodding my head left and right and being unable to speak.  I was so emotionally and physically wrung out that I took a taxi home instead of the bus.

I picked up the lab report and pointed it at the big screen television, pressing it with my thumb. “I’m losing my fucking mind,” I shrieked as I threw the papers on the floor and picked up the remote control.”  The big screen cheerfully came to life and there were three hosts beaming into the camera.  The blonde woman said, “we here at FOX and Friends are pleased to announce that our market share has been nearly 9,000,000 viewers for the last year.

Sunday, January 1, 2012

Fatass, The Visitor

By Daniel Vlasaty

The face in the ceiling tells me it’s time to wake up.  I roll over to ignore him but he isn’t having any of it.  He starts screaming.  Just noises at first.  Then: “Jeffrey Highfive!  Jeffrey Highfive!  Wake up.  Wake up – it’s time to wake up.”  I throw my pillow at him and he disappears up into the ceiling to dodge it.  He pops back out like a pimple, further away in the corner.  His eyes turn into flashing red lights that whirl around the room.
            I hate the face in the ceiling so much.  But he is effective.
            I get out of bed, throwing the covers off my body like they are spring-loaded.  I see the empty spot left by Syd.  It makes me feel nauseous.  I can hear the face in the ceiling chuckling at my sadness.  What an asshole.
            In the kitchen I find a man sitting at the table.  The bottom half of his face is hidden under a mossy mustache.  He is very fat.  I am amazed the thin wooden chair is even able to support all of his weight.  He is not wearing a shirt, and his chest is so hairy it is basically fur.  Maybe this man is the missing link. 
            I have seen this man before.  But never in the house.  I’ve seen him hanging around at the bus stop and the grocery store, I think.  I’m still not convinced he is even real.  He might just be a figment of my imagination, something created by my mind to deal with the loss of my wife.  Syd.  This has to be her fault.  If she hadn’t left me for her second cousin none of this would be happening. 
            I pour myself a cup of coffee this fat mustachioed man must have made.  It is strong and thick, just how I like it.  “Cheers,” the man says in a walrus-y voice.  It is full and deep, like the words are vibrating through all his layers of fat.
            I sit at the table, across from the man.  “Hello,” I say, for some reason.
            He smiles a big gap-toothed smile at me.  “Morning.”  I notice that the hair around his nipples has been shaved.  There are faces drawn on his nipples.  One is smiling.  One is frowning. 
            The fat man rubs his nipple faces and slurps coffee from his mug, thick black liquid hanging from his mustache.
            “I’ve been watching you, you know,” he says.
            “I thought you were only in my dreams.”
            “No.”  He shakes his head and his fat cheeks spread out like face-wings.  “That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard.  Why would you be dreaming about me?”
            I shrug.  “I have no idea.  But I think the more important question is: why are you watching me?”
            The fat man shrugs now.  “Why not?  It’s not like I have anything better to do.”
            “That doesn’t even make sense.  And it definitely doesn’t make me feel better.”
            “Well, what can I tell ya?  It is what it is.  I’ve been watching you – get over it.”
            “Get over it??  Fuck you, man.  You can’t just stalk someone and then tell them to deal with it.  It doesn’t work like that.”
            “Sure it does.  It works however I say it works.”
            I open my mouth but nothing comes out except hot air.  The fat man finishes his coffee and wiggles his way out of the seat.  The chair cracks into a hundred pieces when he stands up.  I notice that the three other chairs around the kitchen table are just as dead.  He walks over to the coffee pot, the floor groaning beneath him.  His fat leg crashes through the floor like it’s made of toothpicks and glue sticks.  This fat man is destroying my life and my home.
            “I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” I say to him.  “And to also put on a shirt, please.  That’s just gross.  Nobody should have to see that.”
            “You’re an asshole,” the fat man says, struggling to free his leg from the hole in the floor.  “I’m not leaving shit.”
            “I’ll call the cops then.”
            “You won’t,” he says, standing up.  He throws his arms in the air like a gymnast sticking a perfect landing.  He’s sweating now.  “You won’t because you need me.”
            “Need you?  For what?”
            “You just do, man.  I can’t tell you everything.  I can’t spell it all out for you.  Damn.  Some things you just need to figure out for yourself.”
            “And that’s why you’re here?  To help me figure it out?”
            The fat man nods.  He twirls his mustache around his sausage fingers.
            “Figure what out?”
            He stalks over to me, points his chubby finger at my chest, and stabs.  “Your fucking life, man.  I’m here to help you deal with all your shit, and to get past it.”
            “OK,” I say, thinking for a second.  “Get out.”
            The fat man’s smile breaks.  “What?”
            “You heard me.  Get out of my house.  I don’t want or need your fucking help.”
            “You do, though.”  He wraps his arms around me and pulls me into his chest.  He hugs me for far too long, and when he finally releases me I see that the faces drawn on his nipples are all smeared.  Smeared across my face, most likely.  “More than you can imagine,” he says.
            I try to push him away, but am unable to even budge his massive body. 
            He begins massaging my shoulders and my body melts in his hands.  “It’s all going to be OK,” he says, going to town on a thick clump of knotted stress.  “You’ll see.  I’ll show you what love is.”
            I pause at that last comment, but my body feels too good to care.
            “I’ll make you forget all about Syd,” the fat man says, “you’ll see.”  And I feel his mustache brush ever so softly across the back of my neck.
Bio:  Daniel Vlasaty lives in Chicago.  He works at a methadone clinic and reads comic books.  He is not on drugs.  You can find him on facebook if you feel the need to curse him out or tell him he is stupid.