Archive for the ‘Flash’ Category

Jeremy Bioletti

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


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.

Respect where you came from

* I did want to include the world as a whole but could not find a collective of stats…

As a man
I say

STOP

all this
madness
defiling women
like it is our right
to desecrate the sanctity
of her womb
not even wipe your feet
before entering a room
do you kiss your mother with that mouth

in the united states alone
a woman is reported raped
once every 2 minutes

EVERY TWO MINUTES

and that’s just
the
ones

REPORTED

in the time it takes for me
to read you this poem

2 women have been raped

STOP

why do you defile
the place from which you came
those who gave you your name
you kiss your grandmother with that mouth

one third of the population
of the fairer sex
of a nation
has been raped
that means if you are a woman and have a woman sitting
on either side of you
one of you
has
be
raped

STOP

have you no shame
women have struggled
and died to give birth
every day
and you soil the
sanctity of that
’cause
of a
flame
in your
pants

YOU ARE NOT A MAN

you kiss your daughter with
that mouth

that mouth
the one your mother
held to her breast
to give you nourishment
and

LIFE

that mouth
that kisses your wife
& children before they go to bed

and the men of power let you out of jail
’cause there ain’t enough room
to house all the people that smoke
WEED

or do some other drug

probably to escape from the reality
of what you did to them
change lives
in the blink of an eye
without remorse
that could be

your daughter

your wife

your mother

and that is

THREE

so take your pick
it was probably

one
of
them

now bow your heads
and pray
for the two
that had to suffer
while you listened
to me
pray for their souls to be free

Update on BoySlut

Posted: May 31, 2014 in Fiction, Flash, Haiku, Poetry, Prose, Stuff

BoySlut is still here, and accepting submissions.  Please see “Submit” page as submissions have changed.


“Skullblaka: Head of A Discarded Machine”

The Skullblaka stirred up a buzzard’s nest wherever it planted its beak into an azure marsh. Squirrels, toads, termites, boars and honey badgers rallied around the obnoxious posturing of this ancient head — an SUV among primates, but this was no paleolithic Dodge model. Bone density meant unbreakable – something like thermite and solar plexus plastic boasting ‘the might to withstand magma craters, and other praetorian phenomena’ while Model-T’s chugged down the eco-streets like well oiled platypuses. Politeness was not a part of the Skullblaka’s programming. “The great blockhead” as it was addressed hissed at the foxes and the tiny snakes, slinging dirty looks toward them when they’d pass down the creek, on water or on foot.

It neither ate nor slept, nor would it put up with any heady resistance from the creatures of the forest fauna – even the quiet ones that were in search of happier sentiments. Twice, Tilda the Black Bear caught a porcupine spike-laced torpedo in her side. Out for a look at some beehive neighborhoods, she paddled away in pain, furious at the Talking Head that simply would not shut up. There was no enchantment involved in this area of woodland, no endorsement from a Lothlorien that was formerly civilization, torn from its crystalline high chair when food was cooked on command and didn’t have to be roasted over the fires of modesty. This was Sherwood Forest not, nor a metropolis. Natural races ran these lands, barring the hostile artifact stuck in the future – not so much the past. Skullblakas were irritable, though not without a sense of survivalist humor. For instance, when it would use deciduous animation to pit pythons and jaguars against one another in a Quetzalcoatl-like death match in the trees, a cruder version of the Jungle Book cartoon was born. “Mowgli … mostly … surrounded by brainless animals,” so they quipped.

And so the orangatans and the leaf ants and the hawks disregarded its place in the ecosystem, for it was indeed a strange misnomer to these residents, utterly unwanted in this tranquil refuge. A tumor that nature would soon be rectified when monsoon rains came, as the Skullblaka rusted to death. Hard headed as its inventors, it couldn’t bother the native animals with demeaning slurs anymore, or environmental neglect. Hollow-minded, quantum sapped, nevermore magic gone.


 

Ha! (Nothing, I Was Just Laughing At Your Cum Face!)

 

Jesus Christ, I was only joking

come back to bed and straddle mine.

 

 

© Paul Tristram 2013

 

I Resemble That Remark

 

“You are a complete Bastard!”

She yelled as spit bounced off my face.

 

“Yes, you are right, I agree with you!”

I answered with a weary smile.

 

“Of all the dirty lowdown tricks.

How dare you agree with me

when I’m insulting you, are you mad?

Christ, you fucking infuriate me.

If I called you a ‘Cunt’ or an ‘Asshole’

you’d probably smile and agree, wouldn’t you?”

She hissed with a voice of venom.

 

“Well, given the proper occasion,

I can be both at exactly the same time!”

I answered, smiling and agreeing.

 

“See, there you go again,

turning an insult into a compliment.

I could stab you in the face with a fucking fork!”

She screamed, grabbing her coat and slamming

the front door loudly behind herself.

 

It was Thursday night again, her sisters girlie night.

I don’t know why she didn’t just say

that she was going and then just go?

I’ve been called a Bastard 3 Thursdays this month

and the truth is I really like the break it gives me,

I’ve even started stocking up beer on the Wednesday,

because I’m a clever Bastard like that. J

 

© Paul Tristram 2013

 

Do I Look Fucking Sci-Fi To You?

 

There a bloke moved into the attic room (You remember Trophy’s old place?)

he’s got a North English accent and I shouldn’t really judge him because I have

only spoke to him twice and on both occasions I walked away from him after a

very long, drawn out minute or two, but I shall judge the cunt all the fucking same,

The Geezer Is A Fucking Dickhead!

 

He is into (Christ, I can hardly bring myself to say it!) Star Trek, on the day he

moved in I had the misfortune of needing to go for a piss while the landlady was

showing him the showers and she introduced me as the writer,

“Oh, what kind of things do you write, Sci-Fi?” he asked and wrongly answered

himself.

 

“No, do I Fuck, I write about real things, like piss missing the toilet bowl,

headaches on Sundays, women who can bring their periods on at will, the intricate

shading of a black eye, flea’s with drinking problems, the buzzing of a police

scanner, how Prozac doesn’t work, hot wax on pink nipples, scratch marks on the

back of my soul, peacock feathers dipped in bitterness and drying on a hot Summer

Welsh pavement, knives with badly burnt points, pubic hair smiles, Uri Geller’s

haemorrhoids alive and well and living on another plain, the funny bone’s silent

music, Germaine Greer doing it for herself, Old Holborn hangovers, empty

cardboard boxes which heroically yet uselessly defy the wind, a pebble on Oxwich

Beach, fragments of false hope, love bites on the ass, the fever of fear, the pollution

of panic, uncomfortable happiness, a castrated mongrel dog licking a discarded

lollypop somewhere in Cardiff’s Splot area, how cobwebs are really fucking made,

ants with herpes, song thrush’s with thrush, why sledgehammers don’t rest well

in kitchen sinks, Beer, aids, cancer, heart attacks, ulcers, fruit salads and running

out of cigarette papers, Japanese Knotweed, the female condom, Neath Fair, a

crumbling house brick, splitting matches in a prison cell, slopping out on the 2’s,

the liberty cap, crow’s feet and chicken shit, a dented saucepan, an old water well

full to the brim with empty citer bottles, luminous vibrators, cigarette burns with

attitude, Women, ice-cubes, dental hygiene, disused bike ramps, scowering pads,

empty wallets, angry wallpaper, bad haircuts and Fly Argaric.

 

Lonely red wine picnics, breadcrumbs on the bed sheets, tracing-paper toilet roll,

Blackjacks, helter-skelters, smoke glass ashtrays, The River Neath, almost poetry,

insane taxi drivers, THE GUTTER, giros, beggars, thieves and tired babysitters.

Post office queues, a blob of turquoise, clothes of black, scarlet velvet curtains,

that purple crap that dentists give you to rinse your mouth out, another bit of

turquoise, nutmeg, lime scale, dangerous stepladders, uneven pavements, the X5

bus which goes from Neath to Swansea, laying down upon the back seat of the X5

bus from Neath To Swansea somewhere in Briton Ferry and pissing onto the floor.

A sticky bag of sherbet lemons, St. Trinian’s movies, Smudge and the mess which

resides within his cranium, flint and steel, gorse bushes, tractor tires, stone

throwing, rats, bats and antelopes, watching piss run along the floor of the X5 bus

from Neath to Swansea, spelling mistakeses, Bagpuss, whisky, 9p tins of beans,

foxes, rusty spanners, prison cell nightmares, Mr. Benn, the insane guy from

upstairs, broken nasal cavities, forehead stretch marks, leukaemia H2O, black

desert boots, silver jewellery, January’s anger, the Swedish Au Pair I once met

in Soho London, chopsticks and switchblades, the revenge of teachers, The Ivy

Tower, witches, Welsh Folk and Valleys of deep living green, Tiger Bay, The

Saltings, Monkey Rock, Port Talbot’s steel works, nicotine stains on toilet

porcelain, bonging, Kate Moss.

 

Window shopping, ram-raiding, suicidal servitude, the false hope of Summer,

DEATH, trying to avoid stepping in piss when exiting the X5 bus in Swansea,

pieces of string, razor blades, burning skateboards, plain out of shape candles,

a short middle fingernail.

 

Bedbugs and the Karma Sutra with black coffee, INSANITY and other day to

day emotions, gravy granules, chocolate chip cookies, sunsets, electric light

bulbs, dirty looks, fish tanks, lies and excuses.

 

Christina Applegate holding a rose between her teeth, Crickley Hill, The Forest

Of Dean, magpies, spears, wooden staffs and pine kindling, the first roll-up of

the morning, button mushrooms, MAGIC MUSHROOMS.

 

The way things used to be, the blonde guy who keeps giving me dirty looks in

Ottackers book shop, the girl with the long straight brown hair and glasses who

works in Solo Record Shop in Truro, those damned Cathedral bells which never

stop ringing.

 

Pornography, sickness, music, depression, donkey rides, spinning out, drunken

teenagers, pointing two fingers upwards, hunger pains, matchstick craftwork,

making mailbags in Swansea Prison, signing on, opting out, books and shit,

custard slices, blue tack and train stations.

 

VODKA, rope burns, idiocy, truth, decadence, purity, Autumn, the number

thirteen, DRUGS, constipation, the shits, white trousers, MORE DRUGS, road

cone helmets, a shopping trolley ride, HOSPITALS.

 

Mint aero’s, suicide, birth, perfection, fear, tattoo’s, paint brushes, the Summer

holidays spent forced indoors, ANGER, SPITE and the guillotine, frost bite,

the moon, masturbation and blackboards.

 

Pernod, LAGER, crisps, Big Mac’s, Chinese takeaways, fucking ice-cream vans,

ANXIETY, STRESS and other past times, broken cuckoo clocks, V Fucking D,

damaged goods, sharpening sticks on curb stones, Windsor Road, The Knoll,

The Coach House, Fucking Kicking Back Drunk, descending rain, wet knickers,

dental floss, fire blankets, plastic cups, cardboard furniture, warts and dandruff,

the shadows, pierced body bits, shaved eyebrows and desperation.

 

Fried egg sandwiches, A4 notepads, those little blue pens from Argos, The Melyn

Woods, Katherine Close, Gloucester Cathedral, indigestion, cramp vampires,

vicious toothpicks, a sack of railway stones, chicken pasties, sawn-off shotguns,

crowbars and phlegm.

 

Blackheads on one’s tongue oooOOOOHHHH! Trago Mills, blank cassettes,

castanets, cornets, hornets, car bonnets, empty bottles, hookers, DEBAUCHERY,

body odour, the guilt mangled up inside its cover aaaAAAARRRggggGG! and

of course other such important issues like Halloween Hallucinations.

The landlady and the Twat who likes Star Trek had stood with open mouths while

I had divulged this information, but now that I had finished they looked at each

other then quickly turned and walked away.

 

It must have been something I said? mind you, I think that I did overdo it a bit

when I mentioned paint brushes, I don’t know, what do you think?

 

© Paul Tristram 2013