Judson Michael Agla

Walking Aberration

I set out around noon, I was feeling a little queasy but I didn’t think much of it then, ten minutes into my journey I got a filling sensation in my stomach, like a sudden gas build up came out of nowhere and began to expand. I continued on but the pain was increasing and it felt like I had a fucking boulder in my intestines, I had no clue what was going on inside me but it sure as hell wanted its way out one way or the other.

I turned back home and staggered down the sidewalk clutching the walls and fences, screaming bloody murder. People tried to help but the pain was so debilitating that I could only speak by howling at the top of my lungs; the people from the buildings came out on their balconies to check out the scene, families passing by stayed to see the show, the best show in town, a madman screaming in the street holding his ass for dear life.

I was half way across the street blocking traffic when the police and ambulance showed up to hear my deafening torturous wails, I could see that the crowd had formed a circle around me, keeping a good distance as if they were suspecting a bomb to go off out of my ass and blow a hole in the street, which wasn’t too far from what actually did happen.

I couldn’t take any more; and this thing, this gigantic enigmatic thing, was without question coming out now, with the grace and determination of a newly anointed Queen raging on PCP. I yanked down my pants and assumed the fetal position, I screamed louder than I ever have and pushed through that sphincter as fearsome as a kraken, I felt like my whole asshole was coming apart, I thought it was the end for my ass and I forever, so I prayed to the only god I knew might be listening; I chose the “BOSS” for some abstract reason.

Ah! The serenity that followed that torture was sublime but my relief quickly faded as reality moved in. What I just blasted out of my ass was a fucking donkey, a painted donkey, paintings of hippie shit like; flowers, peace signs, love the world, shit like that.

I stood up, pulled up my pants and joined the crowd, now focused on the donkey; it just stood there and didn’t seem at all distressed about the clusterfuck that just took place, however, he didn’t just shit out a medium sized horse like creature like I had. I pushed through the crowd and walked up to the donkey, I can’t explain where the urge came from but I had a certain need to pet the thing, almost like we were connected in some fucked up wrath of god cosmic slapping sort of way.

As the crowd eventually dispersed the cops and paramedics came over with expressions on their faces that would scare the hell out of small little children. None of them said a goddamb word; they just stood and stared like deer’s caught in the headlights. I was exhausted and thoroughly embarrassed, and really didn’t feel like trying to explain what happened, due to the fact that I hadn’t a clue about what just happened, I felt as though what I went through was quite personal as well. So, I took the fucking donkey and I went home. All the people remaining watched as I left the scene knowing in their hearts that they would probably never see something as fucking weird as what went down that day.

 

David Sprehe

Britney Spears (Not Her, Her. Over There):
A Love Poem

The hairy, sweaty ass quivered, then fart crapped.
A pair of fat, pale yellow worms wiggled out.

The worms coiled together
underneath the butt breath and fecal splash,
and humped their sensitive suction flesh.

More worms crawled out the butthole.

Soon the floor was an orgy,
a din of suction love-play.

The butt trumpeted,
shat, spewing black purple
blood and steamy clumps.

The worms orgasmed,
melted, melded,
rose as single entity
and entered the butthole.

The butt exploded.

John Kojak

My Last Erection

My last erection,
it’s all I think about.
Really, I’m obsessed…

Dying doesn’t bother me,
that’s easy.
Losing your manhood,
that’s hard.

Two balls and a cock,
my holy trinity
It’s all I’ve got
I’m worried about it.

Will it come and go,
unappreciated
like fleeting morning wood?
Will I accidentally beat it to death,
strangling the life out of it
as I did in my youth?

No!

I’m a man. I need a woman.

I want a fist full of hair
and an aching wetness to take it all
as I blast out the last few drops
of my humanity.

If there is justice in this world,
if there is a God,
that’s the way it will be!
But it won’t…

Leland Kirk

Pleased to Meet Me

A standard capsule includes photos, snippets of articles, and obituaries if applicable. This costs about $300 if you attend a timeshare presentation, and tends to be a popular graduation gift. The deluxe package includes everything in the standard capsule as well as a one-on-one interview with your future self. The price varies depending on the client, and baseball scores and lottery numbers are strictly off-limits. Discussions are meant to involve relationships, career choices, health, and so on. I figure most clients that can afford it merely want to see if they age well, as a sort of unprovoked expression of vanity.

The deluxe package is a bit less desirable than it once was. Rival toy companies now offer similar services, and clients are generally unhappy with the results anyway. My article about the process wasn’t exactly well received either, which I can’t imagine was helpful. With innovations formerly regarded as impossibilities, there’s a certain taboo towards journalists giving the whole thing away, as if the masses preferred magic as an explanation. My former editor insists this was the case as far back as the invention of the telephone.

I suspect censorship of being a more likely culprit than outright lack of demand, even if only because I can’t be the first to write about the whole experience. Most of which involved sitting on impractical, sculpturesque furniture in pastel-colored waiting rooms. The facility itself is actually quite large for being attached to a mall, and manages to stay empty on weekdays. Each room stays quiet, aside from the occasional fax, and the receptionist asking me to proceed to the next waiting room every half hour or so. Which happens to be more than enough time to get through the reading material of each room.

The reading material is fairly personalized, mostly consisting of photos and articles from the standard capsule, as well as inevitable things like natural disasters. Each room is a little smaller than the last one, and each stack of the reading material from a little further into the future than the last, and so on.

The first two rooms are the same as I remember, with the same reading material: a DUI, rehab, therapy, and a suicide attempt. The standout ones being performance and production credits on an album considered to be a cult classic, and a seemingly passionate article where I’m referred to as a “tortured soul.” The magazine in question used a blurry photo of me in a hospital gown, having a cigarette with a sickly woman in a Dead Kennedys tee shirt.

The third waiting room was roughly the size of a broom closet, which is considerably smaller than I remember it being. The reading material was entirely different this time around, too. There was a murder trial and an eventual formation of a cult, but I couldn’t justify forcing myself to read any further. I felt a sort of disconnect, as if it weren’t possible this could be me, since it wasn’t the same version of me I last spoke with. A document taped to a glass table served as a final warning, and something to sign if I wanted to leave without a refund.

At some point, the receptionist—an unremarkable woman in a pantsuit—gently opened the door, clutching a clipboard. Her light tap on the door might have meant to serve as something like a retroactive knock, and she may have said something to the effect of right this way, please but I was rightfully a bit beside myself. I followed her to the room where the interview was to be conducted, which was a little different this time around.

Pink pastel walls, a Persian rug, one-way mirrors, and reel-to-reel tape recorders; I’d addressed nearly everything else in the room, likely to delay the inevitable. Two red leather lounge chairs were positioned in the center of the room, with a small glass table between them, bearing two ribbon microphones and two cups of bubble tea. It looked like something between a late-night talk show and a fever dream, and I was being greeted by my own venomous smile.

He waved his finger at my chest, likely to keep me from talking, and asked me if the cigarettes in my shirt pocket were tobacco or green tea. I rolled both, and lately I was sprinkling green tea leaves over my tobacco. I initially thought the tea would help me quit, but at some point I acquired a taste for it. He scoffed when I told him this, but took one anyway. I didn’t notice the door was shut behind me until I finally took a seat, nor did I notice the barely audible hints of jazz piano with no discernible source.

I struggled with my moody brass lighter for a moment, before being handed a matchbook with an ad concerning matchbook advertising. Smokers do read matchbooks, you are doing so now, it said. I glanced over at him as I dragged on my cigarette, noting that it was like looking into a hazy mirror. Much of his features remained the same as mine, with silvered hair and tired eyes being the notable differences. His voice was a fair bit raspier than mine, sounding more like a recording of my voice than how I actually hear myself.

My focus shifted to the audio equipment as I briefly watched the tape reels spin. He told me interviews with him are elusive, and this particular one being recorded was the only reason these discussions have been so affordable. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe him, but I was under the impression that it was meant to be something clinical or therapeutic. You absolute moron, he’d say, between disgusted cigarette drags and sips of bubble tea. Insisting that I was to blame for anything remotely psychological, as well as the meetings themselves. Narcissism is a hell of a drug, he said.

Ignoring the fact that he was the one that told me to come back soon, I believe I’ve only been here twice, or maybe three or four times at most. My memory of the first interview is distorted, to say the least, as I can almost remember it twice from differing perspectives. I can only imagine the same or worse must’ve happened to him, likely for each interview, as if new and old memories of the same event were competing. All I mentioned was the distortion, to which he nodded and stayed silent, aside from the rattle of his straw chasing unattainable drops of bubble tea.

He picked the microphones up and unscrewed them from their tiny tripods, handed me one, and held one to his face as if we were being filmed. He told me we should have the sort of interview they publish in magazines. Cheers, he beamed, slapping the microphones together. If someone was listening, it’s safe to assume they now have at least mild tinnitus as a result. He grabbed me by the shirt collar while the needle on the tape machine’s VU meter danced with the numbers in red. If you have any sense, you’ll steal one of those tapes and take on a new identity in another country, he whispered.

Several seconds went by at this point, and the more I thought about it, the easier it was to rationalize taking one of the tapes. It was one way to ensure I don’t come back for another interview, likely at least slightly preserving my sanity. If an interview with him is as elusive as he says, it’s also possible it could be worth something to someone at some point, regardless of what changes. I lit another cigarette, and nodded. It was all I could think to do to let him know that I’d actually do it.

He started doing this bit where he’d act like an obnoxious radio host, asking me questions about my childhood, and eventually promising to end the interview when we ran out of cigarettes. At times, he’d pretend to have a caller on the line, usually to voice complaints about the station not taking song requests. It took a while before he was willing to switch roles, and a condition of doing so was that he’d offer bad advice as he went along.

My initial assumption was that advice he’d give would pertain to things he wished he’d done differently, or not at all, and sometimes this was the case. I was told to quit trying to write for newspapers, as those articles get censored and turned into advertisements anyway. He went on to say that writing for zines is what got him into music, and interrupted himself to tell me not to trust banks or credit unions. My favorite piece of advice was this: if ever you feel like jumping off a building, he said. Do a flip.

We were down to our last couple cigarettes, and only a few seconds of silence passed before he chimed back in. He said the murder trial I read about was an overdose, and it’s best to just avoid those people altogether. People live on their own terms, he’d say. Because people are absolute morons. I hadn’t given it much thought, but I’m sure there are self-destructive people that aren’t entirely brain dead. Some of which are probably worth sticking around for, I’d say, but he disagreed.

I lit my last cigarette, took a drag of it, and stood up to admire the spinning tapes. He kept talking, mostly about how corporations function as a sort of shadow government. I’d nod every few spins or so, but at some point I just stopped listening. Not because I necessarily disagreed, it was more about no longer having the capacity. Until next time, I said, stuffing two tape reels down my pants. Until next time, he nodded.

It was a calm and casual exit, not exactly the high-risk stakes of a heist film, but I was anxious enough to get a safety deposit box anyway. I quickly realized I made the mistake of leaving the key at my apartment, however, when I stopped there to pack up. My first instinct was to abandon it. I spent a few days in a motel outside of town, who seem to charge more for using their phones than using a room. I had people I know ask around, but no one seemed to be looking for me. I didn’t see any harm in going home at this point, at least long enough to grab the key. I opened the door to find my elder doppelganger in bed, mounting and strangling a younger doppelganger. You absolute moron, he shrieked.

Brian Rihlmann

Thanks Boss

if he can sneak out
two, three times a day
for a cigarette
then surely I can
to rub one out
sitting in my car
in the parking lot, right?

same amount of time
same stress relief
I’ll be twice as productive, after

promise I’ll be quick
and not abuse the privilege
probably just once a day
twice, tops

ok boss?
thanks
I knew you’d understand

James Babbs

Time & Space

Six days after we had discovered the ship was no longer functioning properly and we realized we were nothing more than a hollow metal tube drifting through the darkness of space Halverson turned to me and said Barlow?

Yes I replied.

Barlow, I need to tell you something.

Okay, Halverson I said. But first just let me give you a quick update concerning our current situation.

Okay.

Well I said. First of all, I don’t know where we are. I’ve made some calculations but there are just too many unknown variables so, the bottom line is, I don’t know where we are.

Alright said Halverson.

And I said. I can’t be sure about how much air we have remaining. We could have days or, even, weeks or, it could be just a matter of hours.

Well, Barlow said Halverson. I’ve been having an affair with your wife for the last year and a half.

What? I said. You’ve been fucking my wife?

Yes said Halverson. And your sister three, no, four times last summer. I just wanted you to know. He leaned forward and pretended he was studying the instrument panel in front of him.

Well, hell I said. What do you expect me to do with this information?

What do you mean?

What I mean, Halverson I said. Is that we’re not going to make it. So what purpose does it serve for you to tell me about the affair between you and my wife.

And your sister said Halverson.

Will you forget my goddamn sister!

Okay said Halverson. He leaned away from the instrument panel and started looking out the window. I just thought you should know, okay? I guess I wanted to clear my conscience.

Well, hell I said. That’s fine for you, now, isn’t it? I turned and looked out the window on my side of the ship. All I saw were long stretches of darkness and pinpoints of light scattered here and there, too far away for me to make any sense out of them.

Hey said Halverson. Let me try the radio again. Okay, Barlow? Let me try the radio.

Okay, okay I said. Try the goddamn radio.

Halverson leaned forward and pushed a couple of buttons. Halverson to Earth Base One he said. Halverson to Earth Base One. This is ship HCB2094. HCB2094 to Earth Base One. Come in, Earth.

There wasn’t any answer only a dead silence that permeated the entire cabin before falling down on top of us like a heavy weight. Halverson looked at me then began his transmission again but this time his voice sounded a lot more desperate.

Forget it, Halverson. We’re sunk.

So what are we going to do?

Well, hell, Halverson I said. I got up from my seat and started rummaging around. I threw a couple of boxes aside. Here we go. I lifted up the bottle and showed it to Halverson. I opened the bottle and took a long drink. I handed the whiskey to Halverson.

Okay, Barlow he said. Halverson took a drink and handed the bottle back to me.

The ship drifted and we kept drinking the whiskey. It could have been morning or afternoon or three o’clock in the middle of the goddamn night. We had no way of knowing what time it really was or how much of it either of us had left. I felt warm. I felt more than warm. My face felt hot and I started to laugh.

Listen, Halverson I said. You goddamn son of a bitch. I’m gonna kick your goddamn ass.

I lunged at him and we spilled onto the floor. I was on top of Halverson punching him in the face. I saw his nose and mouth starting to turn bloody. Then, the next thing I knew Halverson was on top of me and I felt my eyes exploding. I saw a white flash followed by a myriad of pretty colors. We crashed into the instrument panel and I heard the sound of things breaking apart. I struggled against Halverson and felt something cutting into my arm.

Shit Halverson said.

Fuck I replied.

Earth Base One said the voice suddenly blaring from out of the radio. Earth Base One to HCB2094. Come in, Barlow. Come in, Halverson. Hello? Anybody there?

I stopped and looked at Halverson. Halverson stopped and looked at me. I crawled over to the radio and pushed the buttons. This is Barlow I said. Come in, Earth Base One.

Well, hot damn said the voice. Hang tight, boys. We’re monitoring your coordinates and sending out a rescue team.

Okay I said. Okay.

Halverson got up and went back to his seat. I didn’t look at him. I didn’t speak to him. I turned and looked out the window. I wiped the blood from my face with the back of my hand. The radio was silent again.

I found the whiskey bottle and took another drink. When I was done I handed the bottle to Halverson. He took the bottle from me and held it in his hand. He sat there. I sat there.

We both sat there and waited.

Garvan Giltinan

My Wife and My Penis are Having an Affair

My wife and my penis are having an affair
They appear
friends.
Huddle together
And
Stare into each other’s eyes
Whisper in the dark.
To the music
of Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel.

I flick on the lights,
they jump apart.
I say nothing.
Art
and the sound of silence.
I offer
the benefit of the doubt.
Friends. Am I sure?

Amour
My wife’s allure

Do they more than whisper?

Boys night.
We hang out.
Gunther, my penis, urges the conversation around
to my wife’s smooth skin and dark bobbed hair.
“Her breasts are soft to the touch” he sounds.
Inserts the statement surreptitiously
into the flow of the conversation
and acts nonchalant.
Silence
Hums Scarborough (af)Fair.
And 50 ways
To leave with his lover.

I say nothing.

My wife dolls herself up.
A clue.
A sign
An assignation
Behind my back.
Right in front
Of me?

I wake at night
to the two,
tugging at each other’s hearts.
To the music of Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel.
Now they are never apart.
I believe they are in love and plan to leave,
depart
and be together, and visit art galleries
and start a new life.

Apart from me.

They deserve each other.
Both are very needy.

Rachael Biggs

Rainbows and Lollipops

The garden is overgrown. Low maintenance cacti prevail and a tangle of dried up vines threaten to swallow the purple door. I rip off the note hes scrawled: Come on in, the waters warm! and with it a large swatch of paint, which I toss in the sandy dirt.

I flip off my flip flops and walk down the hall.

I can hear the shower running and him singing Satisfaction by the Stones. Cuz I try and I try and I try and I try and I try and I tryyyy.

He’s trying too hard, as usual. Mick Jagger only tried four times before succumbing to the fact that he couldnt get no satisfaction.

He is in the shower at precisely the time I am scheduled to arrive to let me know that his chubby little cock is clean and ready to suck.

There are naked photos of a trashy blonde with balloon-like implants on his computer screen. I pretend not to see them because I know he wants me to.

I hear the shower door close and he lumbers in with nothing but a hopeful look in his eyes.

Hey, you! Lookingood as usual!

If this were what I usually looked like, it would be cause for concern. My hair is oily and and I have been wearing my T-shirt dress since this morning when I used the dirt Id pilfered from the community garden to plant the petunias that Id been collecting from the walkways late at night. No one would miss the flowers since they grew like weeds and the rich folks had their gardeners replace them every 6 weeks anyways.

I look good compared to him though, if we are basing his compliment in relativity.

Wide pink stretch marks criss-cross his gut, loose moles hang around his neck, his nostrils are flared like a bull waiting to charge and doughy kneecaps nearly buckle under his weight, making him a sight few would call good as usual’.

He wants a hug. I can feel it shooting from behind the pathetic longing that are his eyeballs. A hug is not what I have in mind though.

I’m thinking more of ramming the heel of my hand upwards into his nose and then laughing joyfully as he falls backward into the fireplace and I stomp on the four pounds of testicles that swing between his mushy thighs.

I set up my massage table, accidentally glancing at the twit on the computer screen, as he looks on expectantly.

You like her?he asks.

I dont know her.

Shes a friend of a friend. My friend spends time with her and thought I might like her. I think shes a prostitute.

Thats fairly evident, yes.

He’s doing two things: hes letting me know that he has other options thereby trying to get a reaction of competitiveness while also aiming to incite a conversation about prostitution. Hes hoping that maybe that will turn into some liberal-leaning heart-to-heart in which I decide thats its cool to fuck him for money.

I choke down my vomit to speak. Prostitutes are the safest people you can sleep with next to porn actresses.

Whys that?

Because theyre professionals. They always use condoms.

Do you like sex with condoms?

I’d like to pull a giant condom over his head and get my satisfaction watching him flail and choke to death because his fingers are too fat to find its edge to free himself.

Okay, hop on the table.I say with caustic pep.

There is no such thing as hopping for him though; there is only hoist and roll.

I stare at the metal filing cabinets as my reluctant hands move down his ample back. Stray hairs, a puss-filled whitehead and a scaly texture greet my fingers and palms as I apologize silently to them.

I will deposit the two hundred and fifty dollars to my account immediately upon leaving here and finally being able to pay the minimum on my credit card before being charged a thirty-five dollar late fee again. I can also get the oil changed in my car if that mailer I got hasnt expired. Will that make the light go out?

I get down to his ass and he moans and clears his throat. I make sure I wash real good every time before you come over in case you want to go deeper.

Is there a bat anywhere in this room? Anything sharp? Oooh, that metal ruler. That would work. Its an odd shape, but maybe if I put some of this oil on it first and use force…

Why would I want to do that?

Oh, in case you want to get deeper into the muscles.

There are no muscles in your butt crack.

You sure? Best to double check.

A bat would be better. A bat with spikes. Ill make one. Ill plan ahead next time. Fail to plan, plan to fail.

He laughs nervously, knowing not to push me again for now. Hes conveniently forgotten that hes encouraged me before to get closer to the most unfathomably grotesque part of his physique and that Ive given him a firm no.

It is time for the dreaded flip-over. His prick has emerged slightly from its rolls of blubber and drips with a translucent slime that nearly makes me gag. I wipe it roughly before getting a grip and focusing again on the filing cabinet.

I could puke all over him and this table and this room right now. I could drown him in thick, steamy vomit and get double satisfaction as he slides into its pool on the floor writhing like a puffer fish yanked from an aquarium.

Tell me what youre thinking about,he coos.

Rainbows and lollipops.

Youre hilarious!

It takes him a minute to get hard. If Id done his arms by pulling them up over his head and letting him fondle me with his sausage fingers, he would have been fully erect, but I dont need him commenting on my tampon.

I roll his four inches of flesh in my hands like Im making gnocchi and then grab it like my gear shift, as he exhales deeply and I bury my nose in my armpit in an effort to dodge the rancid odor.

Grab tighter,he whispers. Tight like your pussssy.

Would my hands be able to grab tight enough around his neck to cut off his air or would the fat get in the way? How hard would I have to squeeze? As hard as he is squeezing my ass right now?

I clench my cheeks together, so he cant slip his hand in anywhere and think about which ATM I will go to when my freedom is restored. The parking on Sepulveda is free, but will my car make it that far without oil?

You have the best ass in America,” he hisses.

He jerks and convulses on the table and I think maybe were getting to the end, but hes just being dramatic. Fucking L.A. with all of its unrealized actors.

Slow down,he says. As if your mouth is just pulling me up, pulling me up, pulling me up, up, up.

If I cant successfully choke him would he be able to get up quickly enough to defend himself? I could definitely run faster than him. Would he chase me out into the road? Nah.

I slow my tug obediently, desperately wanting this to end as much as my aching forearm does.

Squeeze my balls. Real tight, like.

I grip a handful of the hairy flab as it oozes between my fingers in rebellion, shifting my weight, stepping on something sharp. I look down at potato chip crumbs.

Tighter!” he grunts.

Next time he leans in for a hug/grope I will stick him with a knife I have concealed in my sleeve. Maybe in the neck. I will research where the jugular is, so my efforts arent wasted on a surface wound and I will quickly step out of the way so as not to get blood on myself when it starts to spurt like a faucet needing its washer replaced. Then I will stand over him as he thrashes about, much like he is now, only dying and confused, and I will say all the things Ive been wanting to say. Dont ever ask me for a hug again motherfucker! Stop fucking pushing me. Take a hint! I dont want to touch your asshole! I would rather pour acid in my eyes than see you naked. Put some fucking clothes on! You make me sick! Do you see me? Do you see that even with my greasy hair and my gardening clothes that I would never ever, EVER be attracted to you? Are you fucking stupid? Are you a fucking moron? Yes, you are! You are a stupid, shallow, moron that likes me only for my body, but I hate you for so much more than yours. I hate you because Im here. I hate that partying became more important to me than high school and that I never had the urge to apply myselfas my teachers encouraged. I hate that I deserve so much better, but that eventually I wont if I keep coming here. Slowly this will become normal and as you continue to push or offer me more money, I might succumb. I will stab myself in the jugular if that ever happens.

He continues to thrash about on the table, getting my hopes up.

Do it! Do it now! Come, you fat fucking fuck!

Finally, one hundred thousand years later, he squirms on the table and his legs raise up stiffly as thick yellow snot exits his vile organ. He whinnies like a horse and before he can open his eyes, I am in the bathroom washing my hands with enough soap to drown in.

I dont look in the mirror.

Anthony Dirk Ray

something (anything)

staring at a blank page
waiting for the word to escape
wanting the poem or story to come
something creative
to make me feel alive
any goddamn thing
to make my day worthwhile
so my reason for existence on earth
wasn’t just to make rich people more rich
my purpose today wasn’t just to sweat
eat and pay taxes
that doesn’t sound like
a life I am interested in
a deep dark hole of nothingness
one which escape in unforeseeable
then the thoughts of my parents
that died young come to mind
makes me more frustrated
rips at my soul
further hinders my ability
to elevate from this sink
so I pour another
and realize that tomorrow
is a different day