Daniel S. Irwin

Good Times at Ralph’s Place

Lesser pseudo sub-mutant quasi-low life underling
Rated six levels below sun dried dog shit parasites,
But even though that was the general consensus,
The group’s collective opinion, still they didn’t mind
A semi-pro chicken neck queen doin’ the whole team.
Dudes just hangin’ out on a dull weeknight boozin’
With this, the only woman there, late of a dive bar,
Now down on her knobby knees suckin’ to please.
True colors were shown when the time finally came
For pay off and no guy there would give her a screw.
They all laughed. She ran out angry, vowing revenge.
Yeah, always good times at Ralph’s place.  Great fun.
But, cryin’ time, later, with all the slashed car tires.

Vivian Wyrick

Crimson and Clover

Do you have any idea how many times I use sugar and nothing happens? Nothing! What the hell! You are the witch in this duo! I’m just your little princess toad.”

Sarah gives me one of her sideways smirks and reaches over to grab and then gently squeeze my left tit which immediately gets me wet. I want her to take me right now, beside the cauldron she has so resourcefully and cleverly assembled over the fire pit. I mean right here, in the soot.  There’s something about how she forcefully pulls me under her and her face is shrouded behind her powerful bushel of curls, a berry bramble thicket without the thorns and all I can see is her lips drawn into a stabbing slit before they descend on my mouth and I am pried open like an oyster as she dives for her pearl.

Sarah has her knees planted firmly on the earth and is bent over the apple crate searching for an ingredient. Her crimson robe with the belt tie is coming undone in her state of fervency as she really puts her heart into her craft. I hope it falls off completely. 

“Go in the house and fetch me the wooden spoon, bad girl.” She is all business when we are working a spell.

I myself have been working spells like this since I was 13, but never have I seen them performed with such aplomb as when Sarah lords over the ladle. My spells work for a while but they invariably peter out long before I want them to end. Not Sarah. Once she puts a spell on you and has you ingesting one of her signature brews, well Good Night Nurse Ratchet…you are hers for as long as she wants you. Sometimes I think I too am an unknowing victim of her potions – but honestly, I don’t care.

Still, the brew is simmering, these spells are time-sensitive and I am hotter than Elton John’s horny black toad. I hustle back to the cabin, but it’s way more than a measly cabin.  It’s a fucking Music Chalet hidden deep in the White Pine Woods west of Chicago and she and I are musicians on top of probably being the finest witches to ever grease a broom.  Ok, mostly Sarah, but sometimes I can rustle up a few perky tunes and vampy incantations and Sarah seems to be impressed, but I think she just likes the way I lick her. At any rate, at least I’m a great Sous Chef. I enter the kitchen and quietly open the utensil drawer, rummaging around for that wooden spoon. So many uses, I think – and I’m wetter than ever.  

Giddy now, with spoon in hand, I half skip out the door being careful not to let it slam shut as Thaddeus, our future human sacrificial phallic wand, is still drugged and sound asleep. The lore of witches stealing penises to intensify and amass great power is actually quite real although most witches of today are not so bold. Once Thaddeus came into Sarah’s life, it was destined to happen. And poor Thaddeus didn’t help himself either with his braggadocious boasting. “Well, when I was born,” he brazenly told Sarah one wild night, “the doctors told my mother, Mrs. Menteur? Your son will have NO PROBLEMS with the ladies, ahem, if you know what I mean…”

Sarah agreed with the doctor. I did too. Thaddeus was my lover at one time as well. Actually, Thaddeus had several women and was arrogant enough to think he’d never get caught. That doesn’t work that well with witches, though. Even though he was careful to keep our respective belongings out of his apartment, I felt those freaky witch vibrations throughout his place. And then there was his cat. Thaddeus was not aware of how cats can commune with us. It’s too long to explain, but even without the vibes, I knew he was involved with someone else when I read the eyes of his cat.

​I can see Sarah back by the pit now, pouring an entire box of Dominoes sugar into the cauldron. 

“He likes sugar,” as if she is telling me something I don’t already know. She likes to think she has all these facts about him that I don’t have. Most times I just let her talk. I don’t mind at this point.

“Now, the trick to the sugar, is that it has to heat up slowly.” She says the word slowly real slowly and with a snaky emphasis on the S in that little high-pitched voice she has sometimes.   She’s so damn cute.

“Great!” I chime. “I’m gonna get my guitar! Let’s do a duet. How about some Carol King?”

She doesn’t answer. She’s busy organizing things in the crate and putting lids back on jars. She’s very tidy. It always makes me feel inferior but Sarah says we all have our strengths.  

I take her silence as an implicit nod and I daintily traipse back to the cabin. Thaddeus is snoring – loudly.

My heart warms as I recall how many nights, sleeping next to him, he would rattle the walls like a prime candidate for CPAP, but he’s way too vain for that gizmo. Me and Sarah, we both dug the snoring – at least she agreed with me when I told her it was mad hot and it turned me on, so she naturally had to say, yes, it made her hot too. Aside from his magnificent manly dick, which pleased us both, we had other commonalities in our mutual adoration for him. For instance, both of us really dug those balls. Once, while shopping with Sarah at Whole Foods, we moseyed past the modified plum tomatoes. “Aw, look Sarah. Thaddeus’s love apples,” I sighed. Sarah got a kick out of that.  

The day Sarah and I became a team began with a phone call I boldly decided to make soon after I cut Thaddeus out of my life.

“And just who are you?” she said when I phoned her.

“I’m the woman he’s been fucking for over a year, that’s who.”  

Silence on the other side.

“Look, Sarah,” I informed her. “He’s all yours, my dear. I broke up with him last night.”

There was something, however, in that initial silence and I could tell she sensed I was a witch.  That’s when we both decided it might not be a bad idea to meet in person.

When I first noticed her sitting at the bar, drinking what looked like an Old Fashioned, a traditional witch’s cocktail, and looking like an enchanted goddess while laughing with some hot babe to her left, it all became as clear as the moon at midnight. The thing is, a witch will always recognize another witch. And a fellow witch who has been fucking your man will irradiate the homing device needle bright nuclear neon green. When I approached her, she turned to face me.  She smelled vaguely familiar and when her hair got in my face, I couldn’t catch my breath. It was too similar to the homemade Patchouli oil I used. We were locked into each other. After a few drinks, we walked out of the bar, arm in arm, into the warm Chicago night to smoke some weed.

“You know, he was my four-leaf clover,” I said wistfully while taking in the sultry dark night and the bright stars that were popping out like seltzer bubbles on dark glass. That’s when Sarah floated the phallic wand idea to me. “Oh honey, he’s way more than a clover,” her voice conveying something only witches can discern. I was starting to get the not so pretty picture of just what Sarah was planning to do to poor well-endowed Thaddeus, when all of a sudden, I was pushed up against the brick wall, her hand was under my skirt and I was looking up at the sky where a satellite was moving rapidly across the night tableau. I always loved looking into outer space, from any vantage point.

“Hey Sarah,” I said after I came like I didn’t think possible and my brain was still flickering like a pulsar, “Would you ever want to take a one-way trip to Mars?”

“Of course, silly.”

Soon after that, our “game nights,” as we called them, began. I wasn’t too keen on Sarah’s phallic wand idea, but I wanted to keep Sarah in my life. That experience under the stars deeply affected me. And yet, I kind of missed my escapades with Thaddeus too, in spite of his pathetic poverty-stricken patriarchal ego. And while I had certainly offed my share of woodland creatures in minor sacrificial rites, I never dreamed of taking a human life.

“Couldn’t we just make a puppet out of his likeness? I mean he is so cute. We could paint on the freckles and even add those adorable glasses. And his ass alone, if we plumped it up just so, I mean, it would be a delight to craft.” But Sarah was a witch before all else.

“No, Cynthia! We will NEVER find a prick like this. Lightning never strikes twice. I must have it. And once you see what we can do with it, once it’s properly dried and petrified…”

Her eyes emitted the deepest black. She was dreaming of record labels and Grammy awards. Her despotic matrifocal lust often scared me.

“Ok, Ok,” I interrupted. I knew Sarah was serious about this. “But come on now. At least let’s have some more fun with him. You and me, together.” I knew Thaddeus would not go for a threesome with me anymore, since I pretty much shredded his ass when I broke up with him.  And now, well, after meeting Sarah and finding out she was a sister witch, I kind of regretted emasculating him the way I did. I thought sharing him with her could bring us even closer. But hey, I still had a few spells up my sleeve and with Sarah’s expertise, the idea really made sense to me.

Hence “game night” became a regular event. We figured we’d keep him around until at least the early fall, the autumnal equinox, to be exact. The perfect time to do some ancient ritualistic slicing. No need to waste these steamy sexy summer nights anyway.

Every weekend I would drive up to the cabin after I knew Sarah and Thaddeus had arrived and were settled in. Sarah would usually have a nice picnic lunch with him up at the orchard but she’d be sure to have him drugged and snugly tucked in by the time I pulled up the long gravel road.

The funny thing was that lately, our “game nights” were gnawing at something deep inside me. I definitely liked it but it seemed my guitar time with Sarah alone was what I really wanted. I didn’t think Sarah would understand, so I kept it to myself. 

The brew was starting to waft plumes of sugar steam into the night air. A few more hours to simmer. Just in time for Thaddeus to begin rousing and Sarah would be going in to lay down with him, lick his huge cock, and pour him a glass of potion. Once he was in “the zone” as we so unimaginatively called it, I would join them and we’d have our dandy daddy, taking turns and laughing and Thaddeus would be the jolliest, most compliant hunk of a duplicitous lover, sucking and joking and never knowing who was who. I think something about the spell made him fuse us together in his mind. It was delicious and enchanting and other-worldly. It was Sarah’s imagination though that kept us all rolling and rollicking like a quantum triangle – three sides with hypotenuses folding within hypotenuses. Thaddeus was our real-life monopoly board and Sarah and I vied for houses, hotels, and free parking on this handsome hunk of a man – our unsuspecting expendable sex shaman with a meter on his head.

When I got back with my guitar, Sarah had set up the Adirondack chairs with cushions, a bottle of wine was opened and a glass was resting on the arm waiting for me. Sarah was exquisite in the furious moonlight, her crimson robe pulled wide open, her voluptuous breasts beckoning me. 

“How about So Far Away, baby girl?” she suggested. But I couldn’t resist. I propped my guitar on the chair, took my wine over to her, and knelt at her feet. We toasted the moon and the wolves in the woods and Thaddeus too. I drank my wine which had a vague familiar taste. I reached my head in between Sarah’s thighs. The sky rushed in behind my eyes, I saw the rocket’s trajectory like bright white halo rings emanating from my retinas and I assumed someone had arranged for my one-way ticket to Mars. 

Joseph Farley

No Promises

I can make you no promises that I can keep.
In a moment of need I’ll say anything.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow. That’s easiest to say.
Just put off any thought that might interfere
with the matter at hand.

With luck one of us will forget what was said,
or what was asked, most likely me,
but you could forget as well.

That depends on luck, or what we were drinking.
Neither is a sound reason for a bet.

I should keep all my promises, all of them,
in a box in the garage, hidden in plain sight 

along with the old car tires, the broken lawnmower, 
and the hundred pound bag or road salt
kept for rare days when it snows.

That’s the only way I can keep a promise,
but it would involve too much writing 
and rearranging the existing mess in the garage.

It would be better for both of us if I made no promises,
and you never tried to force me into being a liar.

This is a good night for what we are now.
Don’t say anything about tomorrow or the day after.

Such words would jinx the moment,
and we only have so many moments.
Maybe we need a box to save them in as well.

Gene Goldfarb


We meet in a slow moist belligerency
of heated bodies, flesh clenching flesh,
yet seeking more,
one pounding anxiously against the other                                           
until an ancient rhythm’s discovered
and the impetuous dance quickens
as we feverishly taste sweat and salt,
and smell fading flowers.

Then the urgency overtakes us.
We are tickled and defeated
into incredibly delicious convulsions
that blind and obliterate everything.
With one final languid subsiding thrust
we are bleached of desire, ambition
         and self
till at last we dissolve and settle
into the nothingness of night                                                            
and the great design of things.

Michael Devine

Michael Devine is a self taught artist and writer from Detroit. Bingo Cards to Offend Humanity came about when he came into possession of 500 vintage bingo cards right at the beginning of the covid lockdown. He found they were perfect little canvases for mixed media collage. Planning to do just a handful, the plague did not recede, and in a few frenzied months of isolation he had finished all 500. Using unique source material that was often graphic, funny, and disturbing, many of the cards are truly offensive to humanity — but in a good way. You can see many more posted here: 

J.J. Campbell

a punch to the dick

these are the nights that apathy tastes
like the first time your grandmother 
gave you a sip of gin

the poison that would run through 
your veins the rest of your life

yet watching the woman of your dreams 
walk away haunts every dream

each step a punch to the dick

trying to pen the perfect poem at three 
in the morning while needing to take 
a shit in some sleazy motel in the 
middle of nowhere

the poet never gets the girl

only gets to listen to the stories of the 
popular fucks and turn them into the 
assholes they deserve to be

look out your window and watch a cat 
chase a bird as a butterfly chokes on 
a hazy summer nightmare

there once was promise in those skies

now, you only think about how soon 
does death greet you in the middle 
of the night

another glass of gin

you’ve been preparing for this
all your life