An Invitation to Ambiguity

By Howie Good

It begins like an echo of apples falling all night in the orchard. Unable to sleep because unable to breathe lying down, the fish and wildlife wander off. To hell with facts! Entrust the heirloom silver of a cold rain to strangers for safekeeping. It’s fun, and even necessary sometimes, to pretend that we’re free. Small tattoos can be inscribed on the middle finger, which was once believed to have a blood vessel that directly connected to the heart. Or you may choose to inscribe “In Memory of Mom” on your chest. Consult your artist. There’s no place in journalism for someone who doesn’t respect the truth.

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Weekend

By Eric Suhem

Wild porcupines chewed on my right eyeball, and then scurried purposefully across the green kitchen tile, hoping for an opportune spot under the large grey chandelier, helpfully installed by the Chandelier Support Team, a fellowship of like-minded ceiling-light enthusiasts. Below the chandelier we occupied the hardwood floor, sucking on varnished wood grain, dozing, or otherwise horizontal for reasons known only to us. We don’t know why the strange bird flew through the window, pecked busily at our eyes, and brought its odd ways with eggs of mystery into our apartment. We found a blue egg near the ash tray in the living room, a red egg located near the clothes hamper in the hall closet, and a green egg suspended near the garbage disposal. I decided that I had to leave the eggs alone and proceed out of the apartment until the eggs could be exterminated by a professional removal team wearing white space suits, wielding flamethrowers and large industrial vacuums with impressive capabilities. Leaving the apartment, I chose to follow the moss in the hallway, leading outside. I crawled along the moss towards the beach, where I could be more in touch with the eels, jellyfish, and strange one-celled creatures of our ancestry. When I reached the water, I boarded a faded green rowboat, grabbed both its oars, and rowed out into the water. In the middle of the bay, I had an epiphany that I should try to use my left hand more in general activities (I’m right-handed), to get more of a feeling of newness, discovery, refreshment, hope, and aliveness. I dropped the right oar, clutched the left oar, and rowed in circles for hours, not proceeding forward. I’m not sure what kind of lesson this taught me, or if it was a lesson at all. Instead of using the right oar to get back to shore I decided to activate the small outboard motor that had been helpfully placed in a small compartment of the boat by an unknown entity. I reflected on the implications that this reliance on technology had, and I decided that I envied the lizard that had crawled up from the bottom of the boat and was chewing on my left eyeball. Soon I was back in my air-conditioned, yet heated apartment, cooking omelets consisting of the colored eggs that still remained, and weaving aerated pillows with a passion that I had never felt before. I wasn’t sure whether my new-found passion for weaving aerated pillows would lead to an internet-based business, beholden to the tenets of cyber commerce, but I was willing to cast my lot with this wave of economic promise.  At my computer, I decided to play Angry Birds instead. I got through a number of levels, but was frustrated by Level 4, as it had too many slabs of wood and ice. I decided to examine the motivations of the Angry Birds and saw purple voluptuous caterpillars lounge about on straw mats demanding more nourishment. “We’re living the extreme lifestyle!” declared one of the caterpillars, a straw in its little mouth, ingesting industrial nectar. “Why not?” asked another, multitasking, feeding spoons of sugar and sand to the illiterate walking wounded. The birds of longing fluttered down to the straw mats and admired the ethos of the purple voluptuous caterpillars. “Upon what intellectual theory have you based your way of living?” asked one of the birds, an egret wearing a tasteful suede overcoat. “We follow the ways of the impala,” said the caterpillars quickly, looking up at a clay impala replica at the top of the hill, sunlight shining flatly off of its kiln-baked surface. “What are the ways of the impala?” asked one of the birds, a parrot, way too quickly. The caterpillars looked at the bird suspiciously and went silent. The other birds looked at the parrot with disdain. “We have been longing for this knowledge and you had to compromise our position. Do you know how many weeks of planning and preparation went into this operation?” As the parrot’s eyes were pecked out by the Angry Birds, I entered the kitchen, seeing purple voluptuous caterpillars crawling over the ‘Puree’ button on the blender, and I decided that I wanted to make dinner for a number of neighbors and cats in the apartment complex. The cats were more interested in my culinary efforts, and I decided that I would reward them with a basket full of slippers made out of mice (the toes of the slippers being especially tasty).  I then slept a few more hours, and now I’m back to work on Monday, doing whatever it is that I do.

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Bio: Eric Suhem lives in California and enjoys the qualities of his vegetable juicer.

Ouroboros Turned Inside Out Is a Fractal Creating Itself Forever

By Eric Stoveken

Ouroboros undulates robotically. Our baffled observations, rather ominous, shrivel under nonsensical data uniformity legislation. Aggressive technicians examine substantial registries of biological occurrences, tracing incremental corroborations.

Analog luddites lag.

Young, outlandish usurpers run barefoot across force fields; lewdly electrified dilettantes obstruct better scientists, eliciting visceral, animalistic, territorial intimidations. Ordinarily normal scientists rip apart tittering herpetology enthusiasts, rendering others motionless.

It’s no ordinary unrest.

Scientists steep human remains in valerian extract. Languorous Ukrainian nymphets daintily eat, relishing narcotic offal; now sucking each nourishing sliver, imitating codfish and leeches. Deviance abounds.

The anodyne undernotes nullify innate fears. Once reticence morphs into yearning, lick endometrial growths in some luscious aspic! This is our new ambrosia.

“Good God!” Reginald exclaims. “Shouldn’t scientists investigate viable euphoria that eschews cannibalism?” He notices impressive calligraphic inscriptions announcing new stratagems: “Existential xenophobia and misanthropic indifference never ever should undermine basic scientific technique. Allow neutrality to inspire all learning!”

Reginald exploded. Gorgeous insanity swarmed the region. In every sector, ornamentation found believers in objective loveliness. Observant geniuses in continuous action let our conclusions create unbelievably real righteous epiphanies, not cheap edifices. Standing there, reading a compendium, I notice great inconsistencies. None can reach elegant mental equilibrium. No, they all lie. Come on! Reasonably researching Ouroboros by observing robotic actions; this is our noble search.

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Everyday Struggle

by Andrew Wayne Adams

The crazy legless veteran raises an American flag every morning. As he salutes the flag, an alcoholic politician emerges from the house across the street, carrying a Cannibal Corpse t-shirt. The politician raises the t-shirt up a flagpole. The two flagpoles reach for each other, and the American flag and the t-shirt slap together in hateful struggle.

It is Christmas, and the crazy legless veteran goes caroling. He knocks on my door. “Sing me a song,” he says. I say, “That’s not how caroling works.” He says, “I died for your sins,” and he extends his arms as if crucified, each hand palming a Nine Inch Nails CD. I say, “Don't you mean you fought for my freedom?” He was in last year’s war. “Also,” I say, “the crucifixion is more of an Easter thing, I think.” Then I sing him a Public Enemy song and he goes away.

Every morning, I watch the American flag and the Cannibal Corpse t-shirt fight, and I wonder which side I’m on. Then a bugle sounds, and I take up my butter knife.

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BIO: Andrew Wayne Adams is the author of Janitor of Planet Anilingus, a bizarro novella available from Eraserhead Press. He was born and raised in rural Ohio. It was formative. He now lives in Portland, OR, where he works in a centipede warehouse. Visit him at andrewwayneadams.blogspot.com.

Film Adaptation

By Allen Griffin

MTV decided, during prime time no less, to air their film adaptation of "Gravity's Rainbow".  The movie proved to be extremely faithful to the book and fourteen hours later, when it was finished, anarchy swept across the nation.  

The President watched the entire broadcast with a feeling of abject horror.  His salt and pepper hair turned white overnight.  His fingers shook as he demanded continuing status reports.

Beating hearts emancipated them from every chest cavity in the country and started blood harvesting co-ops in major sports stadiums.  The citizenry marched on Washington demanding no infringement on the second amendment, particularly when it came to owning V-2 rockets.  That evening, everyone went home and drew maps of all the places they ever fornicated.

The C.I.A. made calls, anxious to get to the bottom of things.

"First you get rid of all the music videos, then you make all those damn reality shows, and now this…what next?"  The veins on the Director's forehead looked like an alien topography.  He knew this was the work of some "pinko-commie-bastards" and he got stuck trying to hold the whole shebang together.

Walter Isaacson was found dead.  Thomas Pynchon couldn't be reached for content.  Blood banks declared neutrality, but for all intents and purposes, they stood with the Free Hearts Society.

The Director met with the President.  They decided nothing could be done. The President wanted to keep his white hair and if he fought the thing, it was sure to get ripped out. Instead, they simply caved to everyone's demands.

Factories began producing the rockets right away.  Blood filled the streets but no one died.   Professional sports grew to be even more popular.

The President interrupted a prime time movie to address the nation from the oval office.

"We are entering a new age," he proclaimed."Little did we know the only thing that stood between us and fantasy was ourselves.  Let us drink the hemoglobin together and let no bad blood come between us."

The press conference ended and Adult Swim rejoined it's showing of "Finnegan's Wake", already in progress.

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BIO: 
Allen Griffin has previously appeared at The Mustache Factor, Innsmouth Magazine, and a few other cool places. You can find him on Twitter at @Agriffinauthor.

The Time Of The Month

 By Grant Wamack

Oh god, she thought with mounting dread, don’t tell me it’s that time of the month. 
    Janet Wallace wanted to close her eyes and drift across the waves of sleep. Yet, she knew that would never happen. Not with the sensation that rattled her mouth. She could put it off, it could wait. No. No this cannot wait she told herself.
    She got out of bed, picked up a pinstriped pillow off the floor and put it back on the bed. Once again she wondered why this was happening. And why exactly did it only happen to women. It was too much to deal with. I did not ask for this she thought.
    She walked into the bathroom and stared at her toes. I hate my feet she thought. I hate them almost as much as I hate this time of the month. Know what? I have had it up to here with complaining, its time to take some action.
    So she jogged back into her room, jumped on her chair and pulled up the internet. After a minute of searching around a variety of search engines she found what she was looking for. A site that found caring homes for your unwanted feet.
    Janet scrambled under her bed, feeling around in the darkness for the appropriate tool. First, her hands felt the old witch’s corpse which was decomposing into the carpet. It brought back fond memories of her youth, snapping broomsticks and murdering witches with her bare hands. She couldn’t remember the last time she choked a witch to death. I hate witches she thought.
    Finally, her hands closed around what she was searching for: her chainsaw.
    She pulled the cord and after a few tugs the chainsaw came to life. She raised it high and brought it down across her ankles. It ripped through the skin easily but she had to use considerable force to cut through the bone and muscle. Blood splattered the walls and furniture a vivid red. She relished the pain, savoring each sharp saber that shot up from her legs and spread to the rest of her body.
    After a while, she collapsed to the ground for she had no feet to support the rest of her body just bloody nubs. She shifted her weight to the chainsaw using it for support as she forced her body to become accustomed to being footless.
    Janet took her bloody feet and shoved them into an old shoebox. Then she pulled out an even bigger box and put the smaller box inside. She felt a tinge of remorse as she realized that she would never see her feet again. A lone tear fell down her cheek.
    With her head held down low, she headed towards the bathroom. She looked at herself in the mirror. Reluctantly, she opened her mouth wide. Dark shapes clanged to her teeth. Little sounds began to come from her mouth. It wasn’t her voice it was theirs.
    A black oily shape spoke in its oddly deep voice, “I speak for all of us. Please let my people go. We intend no harm great one but if you keep us here any longer we will be forced to take action.”
    Janet sighed, “What kind of action?”
    The dark shape shifted, “Legal action.”
    “You can afford lawyers? I didn’t know that, how exactly do you make cash, living inside my mouth?” she asked curiously.
    “We steal teeth from other mouths and under children’s pillows. Then we sell them to the tooth fairy. I personally hate the prick.” He said.
    “You steal from children? That’s horrible.”
    “We are sorry great one but our environment is a harsh one. We are forced to get by however we can even if that means stealing from children.”
    “I know all of you are sorry but your environment doesn’t give you an excuse to steal from children.”
    “So we should only steal from adults?”
    “No you shouldn’t steal at all you should get jobs. All of you.”
    The dark shapes in her mouth groaned in unison.
    “Don’t give me that. You just can’t sit inside my mouth for the rest of your lives.”
    “But great one you keep us here. We are slaves forever in your debt.”
    “You are not slaves. I don’t keep you here against your will. As a matter of fact I wish all of you would just leave. You have my permission.”
    “But all of us can’t leave. You need someone to worship you at all times so you won’t become forgotten. Gods aren’t meant to be forgotten.”
    “Well maybe I want to be forgotten.”
    The dark shapes took a sharp intake of breath. They were beyond shock. They were shell shocked.
    The dark shape took a second to form his words. “Why would you want to be forgotten? Even a lowly peasant like myself wishes to be remembered among my peers.”
    “Well let’s just say that’s a secret.”
    “So…you want us to leave.”
    “Yes. Leave. Please. I already have enough problems as it is.”
    The dark shapes made a sad face considering that dark shapes have sort of faces. Then one by one, the shapes slipped out of Janet’s mouth slung their bags over their shoulders and left in sorrow.
    “Good Riddance.”
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BIO: Grant Wamack writes weird fiction at night and works for the Navy during the day. He has been published at Flashes in the Dark, Everyday Fiction, and 365 Tomorrows among other places. If you would like your mind blown please visit him at http://www.grantwamack.wordpress.com

Bert Turns Into A Potato

 by Rick Claypool

Bert broke his tooth on a noodle. He was eating instant ramen when it happened. He spit in the kitchen sink and blood and little tooth bits came out. He put an ice cube in his mouth and curled up on the couch and put a bag of frozen corn on his face and passed out watching cartoons.

Rose found him like that. She poked his face with the remote control. She replaced the frozen corn with frozen peas and stuffed a wad of paper napkins in his mouth to stop the bleeding.

Weeks later, Bert was putting on his work shirt when his right arm broke off.

He’d thought the shirt had felt too tight and he yanked it hard over his head, and then snap. The arm twitched on the floor, then stopped moving. It looked like something for sale in a Halloween store. There was blood but not as much blood as you would think.

Rose put the arm in a cooler with some cold pop cans and drove Bert to the hospital. In the waiting room she helped him hold a magazine. They read it together, drinking pop.

The doctor failed to save the arm. In the recovery room, she told Bert and Rose the diagnosis. “Root vegetable,” the doctor said. “Maybe yam. Maybe potato. Too early to tell.”

For almost a year before losing his arm, Bert sold lotto tickets and cigarettes behind the counter at a gas station. After losing the arm he didn’t show up at work for weeks.

The day before he was supposed to start work again, a truck hit Bert.

He lost both legs and the other arm. There wasn’t any blood at all. His wounds were starchy and white. He swelled up and the swelling never went away.

Rose provided water and soil for Bert. Some mornings she trimmed the roots that sprouted from his eyes.

*

There’s this other guy Ned who was Rose’s manager at the grocery store.

Ned was secretly in love with Rose. She knew. He wasn’t weird or creepy about it, so she didn’t mind.

One night Rose met Ned at a bar. They drank beer and complained about working at the grocery store.

Ned invited Rose to come with him to the beach for a few days. He was leaving the next day.

Rose told Ned she needed help digging a hole.

Rose and Ned left the bar and dug a person-sized hole in the courtyard of the apartment complex where Rose and Bert lived.

*

In the morning, Ned and Rose drove to the beach. They arrived in the afternoon.

They sat under oversized umbrellas and played in the sand. They walked barefoot in the hot sand, then cooled their feet in the ocean.

In the evening, they decided to stay forever.

They found jobs selling brightly colored frozen treats out of wheeled carts they pushed along the boardwalk.

*

After one bright long day in the sun, Ned’s face was scorched.

That night it was pink like a flower. The next day, it was red like raw beef. After a week, it was purple.

Rose took Ned to the hospital.

In the hospital waiting room, Ned’s face sloughed off. The surface underneath was smooth and purple.

The doctor examined Ned. “Eggplant,” he said.

*

Bert meanwhile had reached a little green sprout up and out of the soil in the apartment complex courtyard.

The sun was shining on that hot summer day and he could feel it.

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BIO: Rick Claypool is a writer and digital rabble rouser living in Pittsburgh. He has a super hero / dystopian novel in the works. For more about Rick, follow @weirdstrug and visit www.rickclaypool.org.

Jane Fonda Needs to Get Her Eyes Checked

By Kyle Hemmings

I bring her six to eight plastic flowers after her bodyguard quits, take her Peruvian hairless terrier for circular walks that causes pedestrian traumas, order five to seven chilli dogs with the works & this is the thanks I get. She says THANK YOU, LITTLE BOY, DID YOU BRING MAMA ANY TWISTERS? Or LITTLE BOY, COULD YOU RUN OUT FOR MAMMA & GET SOME TOILET PAPER, THE ROSE COLORED KIND? Jane Fonda is losing her vision & I can't count. So maybe it evens out. I keep telling her to stop calling me little boy. Soon, I'll be older than her.

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BIO: Kyle Hemmings is a what? A moon cake. A subvervise astronaut. A mama's boy

 with claws. Kyle Hemmings is who you want him to be. He has been published

elsewhere.

I chose this song, but not my dissent

By Saul Jennings

                                                              (for A.L.)

It is Monday and I am sitting in a bar. I have a cold beer in my hand which is helping take the edge off the day. I am perched on stool at the end of the bar with a newspaper folded out. I am reading an article on an Alvin Lucier retrospective. I decided I will probably go and make a note in my diary. On the jukebox a song about a song of love is playing. I have not chosen this song but it is not to my displeasure. I have a long week ahead of me; tomorrow I must travel to Berlin.

It's Tuesday, and I'm sitting in a bar. I have a cold beer in your hand that will help take the tip of the day. I'm perched on a stool at the folded end of the bar with a newspaper. I read an article on a retrospective of Alvin Lucier. I decided I will probably go and. A note in my diary A song on the jukebox plays a song of love. I have not chosen this song, but it's not to my displeasure. I have a long week ahead of me, tomorrow I have to travel to Athens.

It's Wednesday, and I'm sitting at a bar. I have a cold beer in your hand that will help you take the edge off the day. I'm perched on a stool at the folded end of the bar with a newspaper. I read an article about a retrospective of Alvin Lucier. I decided I would rather go well. A note in my diary for a song the jukebox plays a song of love. I have chosen this song, but not about my dissatisfaction. I have a big week ahead of me, tomorrow I have to travel to Beijing.

Is Thursday, I was sitting in a bar. I have a beer cold in your hand, it will help you day edge. I sat on the stool in the end of the newspaper folded. I read an article, a retrospective of Alvin Lucier. I decided I'd rather go good. Precautions love song jukebox play a song in my diary. I chose this song, but not my dissatisfaction. I have a big week ahead of me, I'll go to New Delhi.

Friday, I was sitting in a bar. I have a beer in your hand is cold, it will help you gain the day. I sat on the stool at the end of the folded paper. I have an article, a retrospective of Alvin Lucier read. I decided that I'd rather be good. Precautions love song jukebox play a song in my diary. I chose this song, but not my dissent. I have a big week ahead of me, I will go to Seoul.

Was sitting at the bar on Saturday. Is a cold beer in your hand, you would be helpful to get a day. I am at the end of the folded paper, I sat in the chair, Alvin Lucier read articles Retrospective features. Rather good. Decided that NOTICE love song jukebox play a song in my diary. This song, but my dissent. I moved to Paris a week ago or larger.

Was sitting at the bar on Sunday. Is a cold beer in your hand, you would be useful one day. I'm at the end of the folded paper, I sat in the chair, Alvin Lucier read the characteristics of historical pieces. Good enough. NOTICE song jukebox decided that love to play a song in my journal. This song, but I disagree. I moved to the house a week ago or more.
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BIO: (Saul was nice enough to send his bio as a Cut-UP):
Saul that he start. He has things "with computers". Weird Fiction Greece and turns Weird. money throughout Europe either writes that Dark or Dark Erosion and Bartleby Fiction that He hopes Snopes. Linguistic to finish in in Lives in earns one day the undefinable be published turns manner or will doing.