Steven Eggleton


I remember my mom woke us up early that day. It was Saturday and we usually slept in.

My sister was running around the apartment screaming.

“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!”

It had been almost a year since we had seen my father, but here we were getting ready to go see him. My mom was wearing lipstick and an unusually tight skirt. Her tits pushed up through the top of her low-cut blouse.

I hadn’t seen her this “dressed up” in a while.

“Come on, Jimmy. Get your ass in gear. We gotta be at the Dairy Queen in a half hour,” she said.

My sister was wearing the dress my grandmother had gotten her for Easter, and she screamed as my mother ran a brush through her hair, trying to tame the mess she usually let run wild. I went to my room and came out in some old corduroys and my polo shirt with the little fire breathing dragon on the pocket.

“Jimmy, that fuckin’ shirt has a stain,” my mom observed with a cigarette dangling from her lips. “You kids are gonna be the fuckin’ death of me! Get over here.”

She sprinkled some water on my head and her cheap perfume burned my nose as she combed my stick-straight hair back down into its normal bowl shape. I looked like an adolescent Captain Kangaroo.

As we rushed out the front door, our neighbor Mr. Hernandez (who had been trying to fuck my mother since he moved in), sat on his porch smoking a stub of a cigar.

“Looking good, Linda!” he called after her.

My mom flashed him her “whatever asshole smile” as she ushered us into our old green station wagon with one hubcap. As she worked the gas and ignition simultaneously, the old beast sputtered and coughed to life with a thick plume of gray exhaust, and we rode off into the distance leaving Hernandez and his cheap cigar behind.

I crawled over the seat and and into the back of the station wagon and flipped through an old “Choose Your Own Adventure” book, going back a few pages every so often to redirect the tale. It was something to pass the time.

I guess my father had called my mother the night before, telling her he’d be blowing through town that day and he’d like to see us if we had time. So here we were on a Saturday morning, driving to the Dairy Queen on Park and Valencia.

It was mid-October so the mornings were crisp and cool, and the breeze made it feel even colder than it really was. How anyone could think this was ice cream weather was beyond me.

We pulled into the parking lot and I saw my dad sitting at one of the concrete tables out front. His hair had grown down past his collar and he was sporting a thick mustache. He was in short sleeves and he blew into his hands for warmth as he walked up to our car window.

“Wouldn’t you know it,” he chuckled. “It’s fucking closed.”

His eyes were red and his knuckles scabbed over. He had the faint yellow outline of a bruise circling his eye. My sister jumped out of the car and ran over to him, throwing her arms around his neck.

“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” she said. We all got out of the car and joined my dad at one of the tables. “What the fuck happened to you?” my mother asked him.

“Yeah, Daddy, what happened to your hands and face?” my sister asked, touching his cheek from her seat on his lap.

“Ahhh, you know. Just some bad guys your daddy had to take care of,” he shrugged it off. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t ya cowboy?” he said, tussling my hair.

My mom dug in her purse for another cigarette, then got up to take a closer look at his eye.

“Is that whiskey I smell on your breath!?!” she asked. “I told you if we came down here you better not be fucking drunk!”

“Calm down! It’s from last night. I haven’t been drinking at all this morning,” he said.

“You lying piece of shit!” my mother said.

“Really, Linda??? You wanna do this in front of the kids right now?”

Suddenly my mom started looking around. “And where the fuck is your car, anyways?”

“It’s over there,” he said, motioning around the corner, not really wanting to answer the question.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Jim? I’m struggling to make ends meet, and you’re driving around in a goddamn Mustang!”

My mother, livid, started around the corner to get a better look.

“WHO THE FUCK IS THAT BITCH??” she screamed.

In the front passenger seat sat a willowy blonde.

“Get the fuck up kids. We’re outta here,” she said, coming at us full speed.

“Just calm the fuck down Linda. Hold on. Just hold on,” my dad said, scrambling back to his car. He came rushing back just as my mom was getting into her seat. “Just wait a damn minute, would ya?” he yelled at her. “I got some stuff for the kids.”

“Here you go, sweetie,” he said, handing my sister a Barbie doll through the open window. “And here is something for you, champ.” He handed me a Luke Skywalker action figure in his Bespin fatigues. I had been wanting it for months now.“I love you guys,” he said.

As he turned around to leave, my mom attacked him. Her nails digging into his face. Blood poured from his wounds as he clutched his cheeks in agony. “You crazy bitch!” he shouted.

The blonde ran over to intervene and my mom made short work of her. Before anyone knew what was going on, my mom had pinned her on the ground and was ripping out handfuls of her hair. My sister screamed in terror as my dad tried to wrestle our mother off of her. I began honking the horn out of desperation, unsure what to do. The scene was utter chaos.

Finally, she came hobbling back to the car on one broken high heel. We peeled out of the parking lot and I watched from the back window as my father and the willowy blonde shrank in the distance. My mom was crying and my sister shook uncontrollably from the ordeal.

I slid back in my seat and looked at my new toy. The yellow molded hair and the tiny plastic gun.

My mom dropped us off at our grandma’s without even bothering to come in. She asked what we were doing there, and my sister recounted the tale for her. She led us inside after that, shaking her head and mumbling to herself.

Sitting us down at the table, she fed us cereal while the Trix rabbit stared at us, unaware of all the crazy shit in the world. His red box reminded me of my father’s bloodied face.

After being unable to get ahold of my mother all afternoon, my grandmother loaded us up in her car and decided to drive us home. When we got there, the door was cracked and the lights were all off. My grandma pushed us behind her as she slowly stepped inside.

There my mom sat all disheveled, mascara running down her cheeks. An empty bottle on the floor beside her. My grandma told us to go and play outside.

I took my new toy out into the parking lot and stared at the wall that separated us from the alley, chucking Luke Skywalker over it with all my might.

It would be three years before I’d see my father again, and even longer before I’d hear him call me son.

Arthur Graham

Euphemistic Solipsistic

Moose Knuckle, Ninja Boot, and Camel Toe walk into a bar.

The bar is called Sam’s and it’s located in one of the tougher neighborhoods of Philadelphia, the so-called city of brotherly love.

Seated at the rail, the trio has just been served their first round of drinks when they notice another trio of euphemisms at a nearby table.

“What are those queers looking at?” Ninja Boot asks his two companions.

“I dunno,” Camel Toe replies, nonchalantly swirling his scotch, “but if they keep it up, they’re gonna get their asses beat…”

“Hey,” Moose Knuckle says, “here comes one of them now.”

“Yo fellas,” Bearded Clam begins, sauntering up. “Guess y’all just hadn’t heard, but this here’s our bar, so me and my boys here are gonna have to ask you three to leave.”

“Oh yeah?!” Camel Toe shoots back, jumping off his stool and into Bearded Clam’s face.

“Yeah,” replies Ham Wallet, suddenly appearing beside Bearded Clam. “There just ain’t enough room for more than one trio of euphemisms in this bar.”

“Yeah, well fuck you,” Ninja Boot says, turning away from them and back to his drink.

“You dudes wanna start something?” asks Beef Curtains, storming over to join Bearded Clam and Ham Wallet.

“Now wait a minute guys,” Moose Knuckle interjects, coming between Camel Toe and Bearded Clam. “There’s no need to fight over this. We’re all reasonable adults here, so I’m betting we can resolve this issue without resorting to violence.”

“Oh yeah?” Bearded Clam says, staring down Camel Toe hard. “How’s that?”

“I say we start by discussing the validity of your request and the method by which we’ll determine who gets to stay and who doesn’t,” Moose Knuckle suggests.

“Well, to start with,” Beef Curtains says, “it makes more sense for euphemisms of our kind to focus on edible items – dovetails more nicely with the whole ‘eating pussy’ thing, ya know?”

“But that’s fallacious reasoning,” Ninja Boot replies, pausing to take a swig of beer. “Moose and camels can be eaten, too. And, come to think of it, so can ninja.”

“You may have a point there,” Ham Wallet concedes, “but what you’re talking about is the literal consumption of things. Like ‘eating pussy’, we at least keep things on the figurative level.”

“Well,” says Camel Toe, “so what if you’re figurative in one sense? We’re figurative in another.”


“But it’s true!” Moose Knuckle persists. “Whereas you three are just unappetizing food metaphors, we three are pretty clever podiatric metaphors.”

“Okay, but…”

It is then that yet another trio walks into the bar.

“Aww mannn…” Beef Curtains sighs. “Who the hell are you guys?”

“Hey. Pink Taco.”

“Sup. Whisker Biscuit.”

“Vagina. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Melanie Brown

Tarzan and Jane Discuss Identity Politics

The first time Jane discussed identity politics with Tarzan, they ended up in the bedroom. Jane was wearing those silky hose that she knew drove Tarzan mad with wild lust. She tried explaining to Tarzan that she was a progressive democrat and that she was staunchly pro-choice. He just kept grunting and rubbing her legs. Jane was trying to figure out where Tarzan might fall on the political spectrum. She was trying to get him to take a quiz on Facebook.

Tarzan wasn’t interested in Facebook. He wanted to poke Jane for real, in his bed. Jane started to think the situation was hopeless. Tarzan might never make up his mind about his political affiliation. After a while, she persuaded Tarzan to take the quiz.

They were shocked to see he identified with the Paleoconservatives. Tarzan looked at Jane to gauge her reaction, but Jane was staring at his loins. Tarzan swept Jane into his arms and showed her his new Tempur-Pedic, covered with a chinchilla/rabbit comforter. Tarzan poked Jane until they were both exhausted.

Then he showed her how to swing into the next room where he poured them some orange juice and they watched cage boxing.

Arthur J. Willhelm

i’m an artist

yesterday i
watched through
your window as
you made breakfast
i wanted you to
feel me
i wondered if you
could feel my
eyes like hands
running up your
sides touching
your thighs
like fingers
touching your lips
running through
your hair grabbing
your hips
pressing against
your ass
i wondered if
you knew that
i was watching or
if you knew
what I was thinking
i’m an artist
and the view
from the fence
is spectacular.

Tami Richardson

Skin Flakes

He’s a twisted bastard. I awake, his legs on my shoulders. His cock in my face.

“Suck it!” he screams, pressing hard against my lips.

I give it one exploratory lick. Taste of sweat, cum, my own pussy.

“Take a fucking shower, It’s been three fucking days already!”

“Suck my cock you dirty bitch!”

I shake my head no. He pins me down completely, stroking it furiously, rubbing it against my mouth. I close my eyes tight and wait for him to finish.

I can feel it as he cums; warm, wet, and sticky. I lick my lips, sweet and slightly salty at the same time. It drips down my chin, down my neck, slowly pooling on my chest.

He gets up and I turn on the fan, already plotting my revenge.

“You mad, baby?” he calls from the kitchen.

“No babe, of course not.”

I walk up behind him as he pours the milk in his cereal. His spunk (dried now) has begun flaking off, like skin after a bad sunburn.

I scrape some off with my nails.

He gets up to go grab a spoon. I sprinkle the flakes in his bowl when his back is turned.

He returns to the table and digs in. After 3 or 4 bites, I’m laughing so fucking hard I just have to tell him.

“You sick fucking bitch!”

He finishes the bowl anyway.

“I love you!” he says and tries to kiss me.

I run.

Jeff O’Brien

An Observational Piece of Flash Fiction I Will Probably Never Publish

It was just as the muscular, tank-topped guy named Bradley began regaling his friends about the chick he’d fucked six ways to Sunday last night when he noticed two new patrons enter the cigar bar.

Both were well dressed and finely groomed. Neither had a single hair out of place, and one of them was wearing a pink dress shirt.

Bradley’s first thought was that these two were obviously queers, so what the fuck were they doing in his favorite establishment?

And since when did homos even smoke cigars?

Resuming his story of the prior night’s events, describing how this chick had deep-throated his massive cock like she was trying to give herself an endoscopy, he couldn’t help but be distracted by how close the newcomers were now sitting at the bar.

Great, he thought, not only are they fags, but they have to flaunt it, too.

He continued his tale seemingly undaunted, going on to describe how he’d next thrown this bitch down on her back, demolishing her pussy like his gargantuan dick was Exxon-Mobil and fracking her cunt like it was the Saudi Arabian Ghawar oil field.

From the corner of his eye, he saw one of the poofs lean over and give the other a kiss on the cheek. This deliberate display of gayness was completely uncalled for, but he didn’t let it hinder him from resuming the story that had his buddies wrapt in anticipation, wondering what would happen next.

With extra careful attention to detail, he explained how her tight little slit was barely able to accommodate his mighty trouser python, so in an altruistic act of kindness, he titty-fucked the shit out of her for a while instead. As he did so, he heard the two fairies give the waitress their order, which consisted of a raspberry vodka tonic and an amaretto sour. To make matters even more unbearable, the two queens had begun holding hands as the waitress went to get their drinks.

Bradley was visibly irritated by this point, but proceeded on nonetheless to explain how the tit-bang got boring, so he bent her over and gauged out her shit locker like his turgid hogleg was the gopher from Caddyshack burrowing the depths beneath the golf course.

Finally, he concluded his saga with a retelling of how the chick had begged him to grab her by the hair and spray her face like it was a canvas and his exploding cock was Jackson Pollock.

Upon the tale’s completion, Bradley and his bros found they had little else to talk about, and so they just ordered another round of beers and stogies instead.

“Ya know,” Bradley began, nonchalantly eyeing the gays who were now quietly puffing on their cigars, “if they wanna be gay that’s fine. But why do they gotta flaunt it so much?”

“Word,” agreed one of his friends. “Like, it’s not as if we sit here flaunting how straight we are…”

John Grey

One Day in August

I’m seated at an outdoor cafe
sipping coffee, reading a novel,
when a thing in tattered clothes stumbles by
pursued by an angry mob
wielding tire irons and baseball bats.

It’s a hot, stifling day.
The beach is closed from contamination.
The blood-bars don’t open until three.
This is bound to happen.


Irvin Lee

I Submit To The Magazines

I submit to the magazines,
and I do this with a smile
and sugar in my heart.
And I submit again
and they reject me.
Tell me that they’re
thankful for my time
but it’s just not what
they’re looking for right now.
Tell me that my poems
make their vaginas dry.
I submitted to the New Yorker;
I should be hearing back soon.
I bet their vaginas are drying up too.
I bet the whole world is eating
their flax seeds and salmon now.

Irvin Lee

To The Boys Becoming Men

Choke her because she likes it;
she’s fresh and she can take it.
If the doorbell rings ignore it.
Your penis will die
if you don’t feed it healthy vagina
or monthly wanks.
We are all wild and fragile things.
Put your pride aside,
life is already too short.
Don’t run from love,
let love motorboat your balls
and dry hump you
’til you say hell yeah.
Life has teeth
that chews asses to shards,
just be careful
with picking up the pieces.
Stand tall and with confidence;
if you don’t then
someone will step on your neck,
and god knows
we have too many people
on this earth with broken necks.

Todd Morr

Bandsaw Bobby

“Dude, I need to borrow something.”

Knowing Denny, ‘something’ could be anything. I really didn’t want to know.

Instead of just telling me he said, “I need to show you something,” before he marched into his bedroom.

I didn’t want to see what he needed to show me, but I followed him anyway. Before Denny decided to take our weekend partying and make it a full-time lifestyle we’d been friends.

He pointed to the fifty-inch television propped up against the wall. On it was a frozen image, a still shot from a movie. I recognized the film, which made me kind of special. Only Denny, myself, the dude who made it and maybe his mother would recognize Bandsaw Bobby 2: The Brain Harvest from a single frame.

Even Alton Strode’s own mom probably gave up watching his films after Bandsaw Bobby 1. How Strode managed to make a sequel to a film very few people saw, and even fewer people enjoyed, is one of the great mysteries of the world. Except for Denny, the world forgot about Bandsaw Bobby. In a genre full of low budget cookie cutter mediocrity Bandsaw Bobby managed to be the film even slasher connoisseurs couldn’t give a shit about.

Denny claimed to have met Strode at an abandoned warehouse people went to these days to score drugs. Claimed being the operative word. While explaining the plot for the never made Bandsaw Bobby 3: Dismembers Only, Strode told Denny there were hidden messages in the movies. Denny dedicated his amphetamine-fueled life to finding these messages.

Denny pointed at the dog behind Bandsaw Bobby while he chased a bikini-clad actress and said, “There’s a reason there’s a dog in this shot.”

“Yeah, it wandered into the shot. Since only someone going through the movie frame by frame would notice it, they left it.”

“Strode is not the kind of filmmaker who does anything by accident.”

Strode struck me as exactly the type of filmmaker who put things in his movies by accident, but I didn’t want to argue.

Denny went to his laptop. The movies were never released on anything but videotape. Denny managed to turn his VHS digital just so he could study it.

He moved the film forward, froze it and zoomed in.

“See the book on the table?”

I did, though it was easy to miss since there was a pile of fake brains on the plate next to it.

“Tell me the third letter in each word, including the author’s name,” Denny said.

“I’m guessing you already know, so you tell me.”



He moved the film forward. I interrupted before he could show me the next code, “Let me guess, the third letter on each word in the billboard in the background is going to spell kill.”

“Fourth letter, and ‘slay’.”

It made sense now, or at least batshit crazy tweaker sense. We’d known Brendan since middle school. Denny hated him since high school. Denny couldn’t get over the time Brendan banged his girlfriend. Which would have been understandable, if Vicky had actually been Denny’s girlfriend.

It looked like Denny came up with a convoluted excuse to murder Brendan. I wondered how many hours he spent finding the right combination of letters and symbols to tell him to do what he had wanted to do since high school.

Denny was fast forwarding the movie when I said, “Stop.”

“You need to see the next part.”

“No, I don’t. Let me guess, you want to borrow my gun?”

“Yeah, but there’s more.”

“You can’t murder Brendan.”

“It’s not murder if it’s necessary.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“You need to watch the rest. This is what Strode is trying to tell us.”

“Strode wants Brendan dead?”


“Alton Strode wouldn’t know Brendan if he was blowing him behind Taco Bell for a fix.”

“Do you have to bring that up? It was one time.”

“Sorry, the point is Strode did not make a movie…”

“Two movies.”

“Okay, even better. He didn’t make two movies just to tell someone he didn’t know…”

“He does know me.”

“Not when he made the movies he didn’t.”

“He was guided by mind travelers.”

“Mind travelers?”

“Yeah, from the future. They can’t travel back themselves, so they send back ideas and shit. They’re using Alton’s films to warn us. Some fucked up shit is going to happen.”

“And Killing Brendan will stop this fucked up shit?”

“I have to kill his dog too.”

“His dog?”

“Yeah, I can show you his name during the eyeball scene spelled out on…”

“Dude, you need help.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I called you.”

“I’m not loaning you a gun.”

“What part of ‘fucked up shit’ don’t you get?”

I opened my mouth to argue, but logic and common sense were beyond Denny. Nothing I could say would change his mind. Instead, I told him again, “I’m not loaning you my gun.”

“Then get out.”

The look on his face made me wonder if he was going to start combing the Bandsaw Bobby series for the letters in my name.

The glance over my shoulder before I walked out was the last I ever saw him. Brendan’s dog chewed out Denny’s throat and ate half his face when he broke in armed with a butcher’s knife.


“So this whole werewolf apocalypse is your fault,” Don said as he gestured broadly to the darkness beyond the light of our fire.

I shrugged and took a slug off the homemade corn liquor we took from the men Don and I murdered for their coats, “He said fucked up shit was coming. This does seem like some fucked up shit.”

“You really think it was connected? You think your crazy tweaker pal could have stopped all this by killing some douche and his dog?”

Something howled in the distance as I said, “Couldn’t have hurt.”