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.


Peter Caffrey

The Peril of Dating Celine

I bought a pasta machine through an auction website from a seller who called themselves PastaLover77. The advert mentioned the machine had seen very little use and was like new. That didn’t seem right for a self-proclaimed pasta lover so I sent a message asking why the machine had not seen more service. After all, if the seller wasn’t using equipment that produced the thing they loved, maybe it had an inherent flaw. Their response was they’d been unable to use it due to a health condition. That was the full explanation offered.

I bought the machine and when it arrived, the box included a thank you note. It wished me well with the machine and was signed ‘Celine’. Under her signature she’d drawn a smiley face and added her telephone number. I liked Celine; I don’t know why. It was something about her handwriting, her doodle, that made my mind wander.

The thought of ringing a random woman to ask her on a date was preposterous. All I knew about her was that she apparently loved pasta and had a health condition. The idea was preposterous, but that’s what I did.

‘Hi, is that Celine?’

‘Speaking,’ she replied. ‘Who is this?’

‘It’s Terry. Terry399, I bought your pasta machine.’

‘Oh yes, how are you?’ Her response was as if she knew me or was expecting me to call.

‘I’m fine thanks.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with the machines, is there?’ Her voice carried obvious concern.

‘No; it’s great. Thanks for sending it so swiftly. It was something else actually. This might sound a bit odd, and please feel free to say no, I won’t be offended, but would you like to go out to dinner, maybe for some pasta?’

‘No, I can’t.’

‘Right; I see. No problem. Sorry to have intruded…’

‘Please, wait. It’s not that I don’t want to. I’d love to, but I don’t like going out in public. I have this … disfigurement … and it makes me feel awkward. I haven’t been outside in years. If you’re happy to come to my house, if that’s okay with you, I can cook something.’

‘Yes please,’ I said, trying not to sound too eager.

A few evenings later I visited Celine. I took a bunch of flowers, a box of chocolates, a bottle of wine and pasta I’d made with the machine. She was beautiful and witty; we got on as if we’d known each other for years. We ate dinner, drank wine and laughed. It didn’t matter to me that instead of skin, her entire body – well, the parts I could see – was covered with bacon. If anything it lent to her a smoky aroma that was both endearing and sexually inflammatory.

Celine’s bacon-based disfigurement had left her depressed and paranoid; as a result she had not been outside for many years. Family members delivered food and other necessities. Aside from those interactions, she lived in isolation with nothing but the television, radio and the internet for company.

I told her she was beautiful and had nothing to fear, but she didn’t believe me. I said things had changed in the modern world. People with disfigurements were no longer openly mocked; no one stared or spat. She was fearful, but after much encouragement she agreed to venture outside if I was with her.

I suggested we go to the pub. Celine wanted to call a taxi but it was close by so I managed to persuade her to walk. Much of the journey was through a small park, away from the busy roads, so she finally relented. I promised if anything happened to make her feel uncomfortable we would come straight back to her house. As we walked no one called her names or gawped or spat. She relaxed a little.

Entering the park, a dog followed us, sniffing at Celine’s legs. It was quickly joined by another, then another. Soon there were dozens of dogs, scampering between her feet, sniffing and licking her bacon legs. I tried to chase them away but she laughed and said not to worry. By the time we reached the pub she was dripping with canine saliva from the top of her thighs down to her toes. I apologised about the dogs’ interest in her but she politely laughed it off. After a few drinks I called a taxi and took her home.

As I said goodbye she kissed me passionately.

‘Thank you so much,’ she said with emotion. ‘You have freed me and I am forever in your debt.’

Throughout the next week I phoned Celine every day but she didn’t answer. I left messages but received no response. I e-mailed her with no reply. In the end I went to her house. A light was on in a room at the back; the glow was obvious through the gloomy hallway. She didn’t come to the door when I knocked. I heard her laugh, a tinkling sound that was both harmonious and delicate. She was in there. I knocked louder.

In frustration I climbed over her back gate and went to the window of the back room. The curtains were open so I could see inside. Celine was sitting on the sofa, naked. Around her were a pack of dogs, licking her bacon legs and bacon arms and bacon belly and bacon sex parts.

I knocked on the window and pressed my face against the glass, but Celine didn’t respond. Instead she simply made a yapping sound as the dogs licked up all that bacony goodness.

I had freed her, but would never get to taste her smoky saline skin. I watched her and the dogs for an hour or so and then went home. That night, as I ate homemade tagliatelle, I wept bitter tears.

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.”

Christine Stoddard

The Lucky Ones

Before Tinder and Grinder and OKCupid, we had the East End Bridge. It was not a land of love but a land of fucks and you could give as many, or as few, as you wanted. But you came there to lie in a bed of used condoms, shit-covered leaves, and broken glass with one intention: to give, or receive, at least one fuck. Alcohol and drugs were merely appetizers, and the only restaurant you go to just for appetizers is TGI Fridays. All others either win or lose you with the main course.

Summer after summer, the East End Bridge boasted a loyal customer base. Even in the wintertime, you could find local kids embracing each other, panting little clouds of their warm live breath into the air, stretched out on a strip of cardboard if they were lucky.

A mediocre meal is better than no meal at all. Everybody’s got to eat.

Or, as my mom used to say, “Everybody’s got needs.”

We went there because most of us didn’t have our own bedrooms like kids in the movies. Most of our parents didn’t have jobs, at least not steady ones, which meant none of us had our own cars, let alone hot rides with leather seats.

Privacy was just another middle-class luxury we couldn’t afford.

You either went all the way under the East End Bridge or saved yourself for marriage like Pastor Jenkins commanded from the pulpit of our otherwise-abandoned strip mall church:

Chastity is a virtue. Chastity is divine. Chastity will save you from hellfire.

I had planned on saving myself for marriage less out of a concern for hell than a concern for cutting myself on a smashed bottle under the East End Bridge.

It was no bed of roses, even that time our biology teacher, Ms. Russell, tossed fifteen bouquets over the edge. Her fiancé sent the flowers, one for each month they’d dated, after she found him cheating with his niece.

A few of us were huddled around a bonfire that night when it started raining petals and thorns. While the blanket of red and green improved the scenery a little, our spot under the bridge was still just as sorry as it had ever been.

Yes, I’d claw myself out of town if I had to and lose my virginity someplace clean and quiet, anywhere but there. I didn’t think that was too much to ask.

Then I saw Pastor Jenkins fucking my mom doggy-style not even a week later.

Most kids hear their parents having sex at some point, but few have the misfortune of catching them in the act. Best case scenario, it’s Mom and Dad under the sheets with a careless moan here and there. His cock and her snatch remain a mystery.

Worst case scenario, it’s Mom with someone old enough to be your grandpa, both of them playing it rough with every wrinkle and varicose vein in plain sight.

Her tits are flopping faster than your cousin flips hash browns at the Waffle House down the road, his ass looks like something that belongs on a 100-year-old toad, and both parties are breathing so hard you’re convinced they’re about to break.

It’s poignant when the pastor cries, “Jesus!”

After that, I thought nothing of “fornicating” under the East End Bridge.

His name was Ned, he was in my Spanish class, and he rode me on a flattened Budweiser box.

John D Robinson

The Footsteps

Everything is as it should be,
everything is here, except
you and that changes
everything here,
Bessie the dog is sad-eyed,
the cats are sulking,
the radio is quiet,
t.v. off
your absence strolls
through the house, I
can feel you moving
by me; evening has
noticed, it’s autumn
presence falling like a
soldier weary of war,
putting down his
weapon and laying
down his head on the
earth to hear your
footsteps finally
coming home and
knowing everything
will be okay.


Leah Mueller

Waiting For Resurrection

The Grande Ballroom in Detroit
dispensed music and sin seven days a week
for six years, until it ran out of money.

Even Ted Nugent sounded cogent
while describing his love for the place.
Alice Cooper, the MC5, Muddy Waters,
Cream, Led Zeppelin, the Who, BB King,
Frank Zappa, Iggy, the Grateful Dead
and countless other bands graced the stage.

The dressing room was open for groupies
and folks who wanted to tune Jeff Beck’s guitar.
Kids got down behind the stage.
Their parents couldn’t care less
what they were doing, or with whom.

A joyful, decadent time, before Detroit
collapsed into ruins, taking the Grande with it.

One frigid March afternoon in 2013,
I stood on the corner next to the Grande,
took cell phone photos of two friends
as they huddled beside the chain link fence.

They’d lived in Detroit their whole lives,
and had driven past the Grande
hundreds of times since its closure.
Still, they humored my need for documentation.

The two had been married
forty years, and were still in love,
but a little bored with each other.

He was an angry union guy on a vegan diet
who worked for the phone company,
and she had been fired ten years earlier
from her travel industry job.

They scowled as they leaned against
the crumbling bricks of the defunct ballroom,
the vivid pain of a Michigan winter
like angry red scratches across their faces.

Later, the woman showed me scars on her belly
from where her stomach had exploded
a few months beforehand. She almost died twice.

The scars were raw and purple, and
her skin bulged and sagged with their weight.

I stared, unable to comprehend.
Me: west coast girl, the one who escaped.
Seattle will collapse like Detroit, she said.
Everything on the west coast will one day
look exactly like the Grande Ballroom.

I laughed, said this was impossible.
A few months later, they stopped talking to me.

Of course, my friend was right, but I can’t
be blamed for my refusal to believe.
Like those kids behind the stage,
I needed my illusions to last forever.

Now, when I look at the mirror
and the street corner, all I see is wreckage.

Perhaps if I run fast enough,
I can twist the knob in reverse,
go backwards and restore everything:

the ballroom, Detroit, this damaged land
that somehow allowed me to survive,
my lost friendships, and more than anything else,
all the times I turned away instead of listening.