Archive for the ‘Fiction’ Category

Michael Marrotti

Posted: February 6, 2017 in Fiction, Flash
Tags:

pittsburgh

Pittsburgh Culture

I walked up on stage like I was a nobody amongst a timid crowd, who would have had an orgasm after a single touch. The spotlight was beaming on me, the guy who traveled from Andy Warhol’s old neighborhood to recite a few pieces of poetry.

The first stanza mentioned a vagina, you know, the kind certain woman share with the social media world via Tumblr or snap chat. They appeared to be nervous. I shifted the position of my ass in the wooden chair to begin the second stanza.

This one mentioned chlamydia, you know, the sexually transmitted disease most of the millennials carry around like an iPhone. I took a look at the crowd after that to see giant eyeballs, taken aback, like I was reciting Anti-Semitic literature, after they snorted an Adderall.

There’s no turning back now, so I continued onto the last stanza. It mentioned an orgasm, you know, the kind we all had before this waste of time, also known as the open Mic. Where people come to share their art with an uptight crowd. The same people who belittle Trump every chance they get, but then emulate Mother Teresa, ’cause that’s the type of behavior that exists in this pseudo-liberal town of Pittsburgh.

I was banned after that night for enticing people to think about their own obscene actions. Christ, if I wanted to be upset, I could’ve stopped at my mom’s house. It’s less of a walk, and the vodka flows like the Allegheny river.

 

 

Randall Rogers

Posted: February 6, 2017 in Fiction, Flash
Tags:

“The Alley”

The alley you’re walking down is dark. It is the back-end of many dive bars, illuminated by the opening of back doors as some bartender takes out the garbage. The green of large, metal, rectangular, Industrial Waste Company trash containers lines the route. The smell is rancorous; a revulsion that immediately makes itself apparent. There are oily patches everywhere where the trucks have come to make deliveries and empty the trash containers. As you walk it is silent except for the sound of a sticky squish from your soles. The alley is narrow; snatches of conversation come from waiters, cooks, bartenders and dishwashers in back smoking, lounging on break.

A man is hunched over puking next to a garbage container behind the Anchor Bar. You come near to passing by him. You are in the middle of the alley as you walk. You try not to look but he calls out to you as you attempt to walk by. “Hey! Hey you!” You try to walk faster but he’s coming over to you. He’s dis-shelved, dribbling puke-spit, sputtering “I’ve got to talk to you!” as he grabs your coat. You look at him and meet his eyes all the time you’re trying to back away. Your clutching your pepper spray canister and on the verge of firing into his reddened bloodshot eyes. You knee the son-of-a-bitch instead and cry out loudly “Hai!” in Japanese. Physical exertion and four shots of spray later the man, a 1970s hippie, is down and bloody. He’s not out but lying face-down bleeding and dry heaving. Another shot of pepper to the side of his face while he’s down (to make sure he’s blinded at least in one eye should he try to get up and come after you) and you’re off, moving further down the alley. And then you stop, turn, and realize; the man is dead. At least, he stopped moving. But you don’t care you walk on further into the alley, into the darkness.

Some twenty-five feet on you feel a gentle tug. An out of the ordinary gripping sensation. A gentle sensation at first it gets stronger and doesn’t go away. It becomes not so pleasant but oddly exciting nonetheless. Then it comes on very strong and swoosh you are gone from your body and into formless swirling space. Your sight is inward now but inward looking out from a disembodied force traveling inexorably up into the black of the Cosmos for all appearances. You go on and begin looking for a Being – any Being or being – to explain or share this “soul-travel” experience with you. Seeing psychically with the mind’s eye, rising into dark matter. Then you meet them. The fellow dead. And they appear to be North Korean and not really dead but “floating-flying souls” like you. Shimmering in and out of focus, seated behind a panel of computers like a live music mixing board, the North Koreans looked at you; they all have groovy Kim Jong Un devil-style haircuts. But wait, you see otherwise. You see Kim IL Sung and the 1950 North Korean Communist invasion of democratic South Korea! You see former dead soldiers now live as dead souls moved up to be currently dead! Furthermore, you see where in the past fear of a loss of a time-sensitive “now” plagued all. Yet this fear vanishes when a realization timelessness and infinity are laughable concepts becomes readily accepted! Because being “dead” is time-sensitive just like being alive! Ergo there is no ego loss comes the corpse; no co-morbid soul-death. And the old and crippling existential angst/anxiety is at a loss to effect!! Life and death is smooth sailing no matter what the circumstances of your life or your death!!! And that, you psychos is the way it just should not be.

So walk down the alley. Discover yourself; hear the symphony before, during, and after. Let your life bloom as a true enchantment for all. And remember to kill the Buddha wherever you find him.

 

Jeremy Bioletti

Posted: January 18, 2017 in Fiction, Flash, Musing
Tags:

LINDA

 

You can sit outside chatting with the other losers.

But I know you like me.

You think I’ m cool.

You like to collect cool people eh it’s your buzz.

I don’t come very often.

Why don’t you sit up the front.

When I say “kissed me on my other lips”

and “my big fat clit” you might get a hard on.

When I ask “did I cheat using sex”? I want you

to shrug and say, “I didn’t hear any cheating.”

You know I’m an alcoholic.

Don’t feel bad for me it’s my own fault and

besides I love drinking booze.

Man up it’s not a death sentence.

Order a bottle of wine while I dance a little.

Can you rub my back.

One of my boobs is bigger than the other.

You know, I am not what I seem.

I’ve been struggling at work.

Drunk first thing in the morning.

I don’t think I am ever going to have children.

The sadness dripped out of her on to the floor.

I don’t know whether anything will happen

between us.

You should be flattered that I would even

consider such a possibility.

After all I am a total babe.

My skin is golden.

My long dark hair flows round my beautiful

shoulders.

I am just so fucking goddam hot.

Once at a party I showed this guy specks of

blood on my white dress which I said were

from my vagina.

I know I am really flirty.

When I get shit-faced I just can’t help it.

I love stiff young cock and pussy too.

I think I like pussy even more.

Whichever it is it has to be good looking.

Sometimes I get sick of men.

Anyway this guy wasn’t sure what to do.

Should I have said take my dress off and

wash it for me while I blow you

or I really need a pad!

He was a honey and a great friend.

I take a lot of ecstasy which is why I want to

hug people all the time.

Linda was a great dancer.

The inner thigh muscles on her legs flexed

and framed her pussy as she danced.

I wondered to myself whether she was

wearing a g-string.

The thought of it haunted me.

She had a beautiful ass.

I thought I was going to go crazy.

When she went away to Italy for a holiday

and didn’t come back I was devastated.

I smoked packets of cigarettes hoping

she would walk down the street.

I finally levelled out of my infatuation

with Linda and got back to thinking about other things.

That’s when Kay walked in.

 

 


The Panties Of The Dead

   I stopped in my tracks after spotting the blood on Sunset boulevard. The humidity was ridiculous, the sun was shining down with no remorse. I removed my shirt, and followed the trail of blood that appeared to go on forever.
About half a block up is where I found the first razor blade, covered in blood, with what appeared to be a piece of fatty tissue stuck to it.
I picked it up to see if it felt like sharing the story. Nothing happened, so I dropped it. Journalism isn’t easy.
After another block, or so, the trail of blood had directed me onto Sunnydale avenue. At this point the blood was boiling from the increase in temperature and relentless beams of sunlight.
I was hoping to find another a clue, like I was Inspector Gadget or something. I ended up walking away, empty handed.
Evidently, the injured party took a shortcut through a yard, leaving me to follow the trail of blood soaked grass that obviously wasn’t greener, with a possibility of being harassed over trespassing. This is when I picked up the pace, jumped a few fences and ended up in a beautiful cemetery.
She was all alone, sitting on a marble bench with her wrists bleeding out. The white dress she was wearing looked like it had been used for an all night shift at the butchers.
I remember thinking how much of a sin it was to let that smoking hot body go to waste. She was drop dead gorgeous without make-up, but so close to death, that touching didn’t seem relevant.
I approached her gently and said, “You mind if I sit down for a minute?”
She looked up at me with those bloodshot eyes and said, “Do what you want. The clock is ticking. My time in this boring, material world is almost through. Thank God for that.”
I sat down, sparked up a cigarette and asked if she’d like one. She took the cigarette, lit it up and said,
“Well, what do you want? Am I not allowed to die in peace?” A few drops of blood had landed on her cigarette.
“You can rest in peace,” I said. “But in the meantime, my dealer has a tendency to show up late, so I was hoping to hear your story, if you’re not too busy that is.”
“Who’s your dealer?”
I blew out a cloud of smoke and said, “Frankie Foreskin. You know him?”
“Who the fuck doesn’t know Frankie Foreskin?” she replied. “He has the best prices in Pittsburgh, and the most horrendous cock of all time. Speaking of drugs and cocks, this is pretty much what it all boils down to.”
“How so?” I asked.
“When hedonism becomes inefficient, all that’s left is the mundane. The monotony of life, the repetition of the clock. It got to the point where I became numb to pleasure.”
“Christ! That’s fucked!” I replied.
“You’re damn right it is! You better hope you never cross that path. It’s no way to live, obviously.”
“Yeah, but I’ve been getting fucked up for years now, and my orgasms are always on point. Maybe you have a rare condition.”
“Maybe,” she replied. “Not that it matters anymore. I’ve made my choice. You and the rest of them can keep on living, I’m not jealous.
“I highly doubt any new drugs are going to be on the market in the near future. There’s next to nothing to anticipate besides the inevitability of inflation.”
“Wow,” I said. “Now you’re making me depressed.”
“What the fuck did you expect, asshole! I’m fucking bleeding out over here!” She lifted her wrists to emphasize her point. Blood splattered down onto the marble bench. The stench of imminent death was in the air.
That’s when my cellphone rang. I reached in my pocket and said, “Could you excuse me for a minute?”
“Of course,” she said. “I’ve got all day.”
It was Frankie Foreskin. Immediately he began bitching at me for being late. (Like it’s not usually the other way around.)
I explained the circumstances, which intrigued Frankie very much. He wanted to know her name, thinking that he definitely knew the woman, so I told him to hold on for a minute while I asked,
“Hey, what’s your name, honey?”
“Who wants to know? You or that creep on the other end?”
I smiled and said, “Well actually we’re both kind of curious.”
“Sally. My name’s fucking, Sally.”
I backed up a few steps away to relay the name to Frankie.
His response was: “You gotta be kidding me! That’s a quality woman gone to waste. Mario, I’ll tell you what: she was the closest thing I’ve ever come to an orgasm.
“After all, it’s not easy to climax when you’re all foreskin, if ya know what I mean. That Sally fucked and sucked me for hours on end. She was really devoted to getting me off.
“I have a reputation for endurance. Ask around if you don’t believe me. It’s a fucking fact! You understand me, Mario?
“Nobody makes Frankie Foreskin bust a nut. Nobody!”
“That’s great, Frankie. I’m real proud of you. Lemme call you back in a minute.”
“Fuck that shit!” said Frankie. “You’re already cutting into my time. Time is money, Mario. Say goodbye to dead girl, and move your ass! Actually….
“Wait a minute. Could you grab her panties for me after she expires? You know, like a souvenir or something. Me and Sally spanned time together.”
“I’m not doing that, Frankie! Goodbye!”
I turned back around to the sight of the sexiest corpse I’ve ever seen. For awhile there I obsessed over how much priceless dialogue was lost ’cause of Frankie’s inability to shut the fuck up. Then I realized how much leverage I could have over the next purchase if I obtained the dead panties of Sally. It was discount time, and my phone was ringing again.
“What, Frankie?”
“Why’d she off herself, I gotta know? Why in the world would a gorgeous woman like that call it quits?”
“She said it had something with being immune to pleasure. Good enough reason, if you ask me.”
“I’ll snort to that.” said Frankie. And snort he did. I heard it. Immediately my mouth began to salivate.
“Frankie, gimme a minute.”
I walked over to the corpse, which was already on the ground, reached up her still slightly warm thighs, and removed the pink panties.
Her skin was so soft. Honestly, I couldn’t help myself from becoming aroused. I’ve always had a thing for psychotic women, and cemetery sex.
“I have the panties, Frankie. Let’s work out a deal.”
“Smell them! Describe the aroma!”
I took a giant whiff and said, “They smell like sexual frustration and detox. What about the color? Don’t you wanna know that?”
“No,” said Frankie. “That’s not important. Just bring them to me, pronto! I wanna walk around the house in them, just like the good old days.
“I’ll offer you half off of whatever is you’re looking to purchase.”
“Good enough, Frankie! I’ll see you soon.”
I kissed Sally on the cheek, took a few pictures with my phone, and proceeded to make my way back to the original journey at hand:
Dormont. I was going to have enough cash today for both drugs and pizza. What more could you ask for? It was a rarity in life. A day where we all came out as winners.


From veteran Poet and debut Author Terry Smith comes BATHROOM GRAFFITI, a thought provoking collection of satire poems laced with a raw observational edginess that literally drips with emotional and heartfelt meaning from the walls and stalls surrounding that dreaded thing we come to loathe and cherish – the public toilet. But regardless of the words scrawled in the dirtiest of ink, each do have a genuine story that definitely surpasses that old cliché: “Now here I sit all broken hearted. . .”.

 


Please don't call it my town I just live there

Please don’t call it my town I just live there

 

 I live in a town so small you can go from up-town to down-town…just by turning around …where the newspaper is a pamphlet that comes out once a month…mostly about people who couldn’t wait to get out…it’s called “The Obituaries” but I know I saw Mrs. Lacey sneaking out of town real early one morning….a place where the only gun restriction is that you don’t point it at your waitress…. where Andy Griffith goes to get away from it all…a town so small they still sell penny candies…you have to buy them by the dozen…and you only get four but…….where the only store sells guns & beer next to diapers & Viagra…..I remember this one time …the whole town lost power….somebody tripped over the cord…. the mayor drives the school bus…we had a riot one time…two people went home for lunch…leaving me all alone….we had the same homecoming queen three years straight…time for a new one…if she graduates…where the closest hospital is so far away they usually just go to the cemetery…and wait….and the school is right next door….so you can see your future….a town so small you can look out your window and see who all your neighbors are doing…where everybody knows everything about everybody…unless you are new here like me…and I keep to myself….a town so small all the women’s periods have synced up and for a few days a month they change the name to “Red River Valley”……someday my name is going to be on that pamphlet…one way or the other.

Poet Ali Znaidi

The Last Sentences of an Unfinished Erotic Novel
 
There was the vibe of the skin.
There were the vibrations of the body,
and above all, the countless bee stings on her tattooed navel.

Caroline Cunning has Images for your Addiction

 

a scream juice

a shocking psycho go-go dancer

the diabolical delinquents involved in drug addiction

tested the limit of the reward pathway directly

she became involved with a touch of some fingers

smooth stroll down a deserted alley

a kiss in the nighttime a whisper a breath

a perception of the stimulus bombardment

a blast from a .44

she flicked her cigarette butt onto the twitching corpse

first aktion made to last

 

she was a serial seducer packing love and knives

always carrying a sickness in her gut

always a smile always

certain rituals pleased her:

a torn skirt or another memento from fucking

that she threw away to be used in fetish rituals

by government officials in middle America

that place where matrons rub ak47’s between their legs

and men castrate themselves with bullets

juxtaposed between blood and holiness

wandering haphazardly towards self-destruction

have your children killed each other today?

 

she lay back and smoked another cigarette

purple/grey smoke wafting away

slitting bellies open with her fingernails

removing organs and all thoughts of morality

a fertility goddess gone way / way bad

another noted fear in the heat of the vocabulary

 

it was okay for them to say nasty dirty things

some spasms she actively enjoyed

please visit the others

needle balloon

boneless faces

plugged in

then plugged out

demonic routines and such

please visit the others she said

they’re hiding in the basement

that one down the block with the windows gouged out

they can’t say how i feel

blank squares on the walls where pictures used to be

a heart burns inside a cage suspended over glass

she’ll eradicate them all

 

 

 


from my wretched eyes

 

a quick

glance

from my

wretched

eyes

 

an angelic

face that

seems to

be defying

age and

time

 

it reminds

me what

a wise old

man told

me when

i was very

young

 

not

everyone

prays to

the same

god

 

 

still in her church clothes

 

i saw this black

woman in the

grocery store

today

 

probably still

in her church

clothes

 

but those long

legs and that ass

bouncing with

each step

 

i could definitely

see her causing

someone to say

the words god

damn at some

point in the

service

 

the depraved

part of my

brain wanted

to go sniff her

panties while

she was over

looking at the

tomatoes

 

but the clever

fuck in me was

busy over at

the bananas

 

hoping to find

one long enough

 

 


A Comfortable Silence

 

Your sour face

matches the taste

of your vagina

The only difference is

the vagina doesn’t speak

I’ll gladly take this orifice

over the other

 

Words can be sharp

Penetrating

like my sexual organ

I’ll slip it in

to mitigate this suffering

Now all I need from you

is silence

If I had two dicks

This would be  so rewarding

 

The day you learn

to shut the fuck up

Is the day I’ll order pizza

We’ll celebrate

Have a little party

Until that day comes

Please

let me cum in peace

In the meantime

pass me another Xanax

 

“Yearning For This Moment”

 

Prancing around

in the sunshine

10 out of 10

Big bouncing

C cups

An ass

tighter than a noose

 

Her body

could cure

a hangover

Make you cum

with the quickness

In the gloom

of the rain

Nothing but charm

in tune with nature

 

Naturally I long

to feel

her warm

embrace

It’s like

a provocative sitcom

Living it out

Anticipating the end

When a new beginning

will blossom

The cum will flow again