Tales of the Apocalypse: Anna

Anna sank to her knees and brushed the dirt from a hidden plank. She put it aside and stared for a moment at the battered silver travelling case that nestled in the hand dug hole. She took it out, unslung the twine that had hung roughly around her neck for a long time, and fumbled at the small key attached. She inserted it in the lock, turned, and the case clicked audibly open.  Startled, Anna touched her dirty and tangled hair, then stroked it before letting her hands descend into the case’s open maw.

She withdrew a pair of jeans, turning it over slowly in the candlelight. She sniffed at it, brushed it against her cheek under tear bright eyes.  Kelvin Cleen jeans. She put it down after a final sniff and took a flimsy shirt from the case. Musa Commonwealth. She put it back. The shoes were Prana. A pair of underwear from Somebody’s Secret. Her mother’s faded October 2010 edition of Great Housekeeping. A packet of gum.  An unopened bottle of Cocko-cola, the caramel fluid inside gone flat. Some lipstick, dry with age. A cell phone, its display eternally dark, like the emptiness that yawned in her soul. Anna sobbed from the pit of her stomach, all the sorrow and pain leaking from her scrunched eyes, yet affording no relief. She carefully returned each artefact to the silver case, and as she replaced the plank and its coat of dirt, there was a knock at the door.

One. The door, corrugated plastic reinforced with duct tape and scraps of rags, shuddered visibly. Anna swept the hay back over the patch of ground concealing her treasure, and tore the sackcloth from her body, the circle of twine from her neck. Two. Naked, she sank to her knees and waited for the door to open on the third knock, trying not to cry.

Space Orgone

The blue klaxons sounded on the SS Voyeur and parents scrambled their children to robotic nannies before making their way to the sex chapel where a crowd was gathering under the orgone blue dome, voices calling out deviantions.

“Feetishists afoot!” “Leather and spandex devotees bunch here!” “Strokes for Masturbatin’ Voyeurs!” “Role-players (No geeks!)” “GILFS and DILFS for Golden Showers!”  “Yoo-hoo, Ass Pirates, to me ye hearties!” “Sadomaschos Untie!” “Let the Orgone Radiation Gathering Yark begin!”

The gathered in the sex chapel gravitated towards their favorite deviancy and tapped deep into their psyches for the primordial carnality that lay under the epidermis of civilization. Exterior wear was shed for the seal-slick juices of the flesh. Large eunuchs beat on great drums and small eunuchs stroked bass harps. Castrated midgets cavorted with bells in rhythm as the dome slid open its blue current to reveal the star-shattered inky black. To the beat flesh moved slowly in minds losing thought but for that of pleasure in the now. Large arms pummeled animal hide towards a booming crescendo, rail thin fingers a frenzy on throbbing strings, short legs punctuating each tingle with stamps. An ocean of bodies moved in great ciphered knots. A blue haze wafted from pituitaries, navels, the anal circuit, hissed from hammering lingams and squelching yonis,  to fill the dome with crackling blue energy. The receded sheath of the dome caught this smoke, absorbed it. Outside in the vacuum, the Reich Drive, pushed past the minimum threshold, buzzed, starting its intricate process.

The Reich Drive was formulated by the enigmatic and elusive Werner Schlagjob, thought by Reichian devotees as the reincarnation of the Father of Orgone himself. His treatise on Reich’s lost papers rocked the scientific community, enraged the oil and coal cartels, and shattered multiple political and religious ideologies. The Drive converted the energies from the accumulator to workable electrical energy, and this gave mankind an unprecedented freedom.

Culture on Earth changed drastically. Orgone accumulaters were cranked out by the thousands, the century long dependence on fossil fuels finally severed. Taboos were overturned and religions embraced the sex industry. Bar mitzvahs featured sex professionals to usher the recipient towards adulthood. The onset of menses were celebrated by long dormant pagan fertility rites, the events of which were fiercely guarded by its participants. Ancient hippies, bolstered by longevity technologies, stayed in their enclaves and said through shrouds of smoke, “We wanted free love but, man, even this is too far out for us, man.”

Each home was off the grid and completely self-dependent. A simpler, more pastoral life descended upon the peoples of the Earth, this virtually unlimited energy allowing them time to pursue their heart’s folly. Indeed, many found themselves elbow deep in the loam, tending gardens of sweet fruits, succulent vegetables, intoxicating and medicinal herbs, or herding abundant quantities of farm beasts on the asphalt of overgrown megacities. Rain soaked days and moon dappled nights were spent thrusting and moaning and grabbing yes don’t stop yes that yes under the blue sparks of orgone accumulators. The crime rate dwindled, confining itself to crimes of passion, monetary greed and theft becoming a thing of the past.

All was good.

Then Man’s eyes turned outward. Romantic notions of the stars had always existed in his heart from his moist beginnings in the primordial soup, and now the very possible idea of entering space seduced his sentiment. Chemical rockets brought orgone accumulators and massive arrays of Reich Drives into Earth orbit. There, ion engines and the Drive were wedded, held in conjunction by the accumulators. In theory, the energies of people, ramped up by an indeterminable factor by sexual activity, collected by the accumulators would be enough to propel the ship in the void.

The first sex ships were radioactive shielded tin cans piloted by expendable burn-outs outfitted with second rate equipment, cosmonautic training, and first rate experience in the sex industry. The Kármán line was littered with the frosted corpses of Man’s first efforts. The pioneers who managed to pass the moon in their cold ships caligulated under the red eye of Jove, fucked languidly awash in Neptune’s blue hue, their orgone accumulator flickering with cerulean sparks. These ships continued outward until their sensors stopped transmitting, the fates of the occupants lost forever. The third ship sent out, the SS One Night Stand, famously passed the Kuiper belt before cutting off.

Lessons were learned and mistakes mended. The amount of occupants per mass mattered and had to remain above a certain threshold, if there were to be enough energy to power the ship. Families became central in ship life, if these ships were to keep going. The first generation ship was an experiment that remained in Earth orbit for fifty years before it was deemed a success and sent on its way. Many signed up for the stars and crept across the inky black in these large titanium ships, knowing very well that home was where the heart went.

Exhausted and panting the people peeled themselves from their partners, bade them a good night and went home to their children as the SS Voyeur penetrated deeper into the cosmos.

non sequitur: unrelated stanzas

my life is a panorama of wasted effort

when ten toes are a crowd these shoes have got to go

my heart beats for everyone

reality is an inside out soul, what’s the difference between you and me?

i am given to pause when i sniff flowers for they are plant vaginas and penises

a house is meaningless in summer but is everything in the winter

i am always falling, only it seems i am staying still

cash plus  impulse plus  store equals afterwards hollow feeling like cheap sex

what is really of the utmost importance? things go away

helping people at 2, 3am at work wakes me up feeling like a damn is given

after winter left i don’t really see night any more

i am used to being poor i like it. at least there your priorities are ordered

i am not afraid of change; it just tires me out

openly advocating anarchy i am secretly afraid of it really happening

a self-inflicted cut exists on my finger from a lack of caution

everyone is angry

i have a hungry monster inside always wanting something more i don’t know

everyone is a sex toy

doomed to be a jack of all trades, glimpsing each, mastering none

agh agak gahk! strange sounds are calming, zchow!

i drink yerba mate laced with cayenne pepper

indifference

a coin only has one side; everything else is  Schrödinger’s cat

a life is a paroxysm of pursuit

I failed

Events in my life have conspired to prevent me from completing the goal of fifty thousand words within a month’s time. I am loathe to set the blame on external circumstances, but it is true enough. This here is an excerpt from the CHESTER section, which concerns a zombie’s odyssey. He will interact with Vogina and Seamus, another character I have not (yet?) shown in this blog, though minutely, despite their convergence being of the utmost importance (to the plot, if I threaded it correctly). Chester remains largely unwritten and exists in the rough chunks of excerpts, so forgive any discontinuity. I just might finish this novel, for the hell of it, having just read it after a couple of weeks dusting. It’s not too bad. A bit weird, yes, but that’s the type of fiction I subscribe to. Well, happy readings, and do share your thoughts of Chester, if you managed to read through the entirety of this unusually long post, hell, even if you didn’t make it through.

Good luck.

Floweros

When I see a field of wildflowers swirling with the passage of honeybees and grazing grasshoppers, I see a vast flowery orgy. Cunt-blossoms yawning in the sundappled plain with wide spread calyx thrusting colorful ejaculation of stamen dust onto the furred abdomens of apis streaking the blue sky. Waving in the rain, swaying in the chinook wind, nodding drooping in the moonlight, whoring pollen. A vast wildflower field of fucking.

Garden Felicitations

Miss Olivia Ladgrise confers with a close acquaintance, the Madam Jessica Souperkoup, concerning the subject of a favorite employee and his esteemed qualities in the garden and kitchen:

I love how he manhandles my watermelons and delicately plucks my strawberries. The cherries he drops into my hand, so succulent! Cucumbers, corn, carrots, celery, and eggplants! Many small mushrooms of all kinds and some quite large ones with a sweet flavor and a salty tang.

Red tomatoes, pressed together until they explode pulp to be simmered. He strokes the basil with tenderness as he brings it close to savor the scent. What magic he does with my oreganos, you would like to know! But it’s our secret. Oh. He clutches at my pomegranates with a thirst in his eyes. My avocados soften in the heat forged by his skilled hands.

Rhubarb! Oh, his rhubarb pie makes me melt with candied delight.

Sasha

Sasha sat in the crèche, a sprawl of connectors snaking from her shorn head to an outlet in the wall. She wore mirrorglass lenses swarming with halogen text.  It was a code read-out of the future, specifically that of the SecResCorp Inc. grounds. The spatial-temporal dimensions belonged to an agent in deep cover. The identity of the field agent, codename Janus, was deeply classified. The length and breadth of experience in space-time within his proximity was fed backwards through time.

It was a power of godlike proportions. A complete three dimensional data capture of a single spatial-temporal slice unfolded in her mind. It was a security complex. The higher aboves wanted an article from the desk of office space 24D in Complex HAZK8. These slices of space-time could be put in a containment field, the electromagnetic equivalent of an ol’ mason jar, and using this method Sasha was able to investigate all the possibilities to ensure maximum survivability rate.  In rapid fire she undertook several scenarios. Virtually, she experienced each iteration, died and lived through each failure and success until the options towards the best possible course consolidated. Ghosts of pain tingled where limbs were scorched off, slashes gashed, internal punctures ruptured. She finished these sessions feeling like a patchwork woman.

She was an artist, dancer, philosophizer, warrior, architect, general, and a woman. Sasha applied herself to her bloody art with finesse, rough-hewed when necessary, and ultimately outputted a scenario that yielded an 100% success rate. She downloaded a copy onto a datachip. She grinned with satisfaction and swept the nodes from her skull. She had even accounted for Johnny Kester. Sasha headed for the mess hall, jiggling the datachip in a hand.

Johnny Kester was a pilot, and relatively new with the company. It would be his first time working with Sasha. His specialty was the Cricket, a small thopter, capable of flying with payloads under a thousand kilos. Any heavier, it would still fly short distances, hopping long parabolas from point to point. Johnny was supposedly the best. He probably was, Sasha surmised. The superiors never half-arsed on help and resources when it came to Sasha. She found him just leaving the mess hall. He stopped when he saw her.

“It’s just like a dance.” She pirouetted, tossing the chip to Johnny who caught it with the reflexes expected of a pilot. She grabbed him by the coat and slammed him against the wall. “Don’t fuck it up.” With slackjaw amazement he watched her ass recede down the hall.

Final Scenario:
She always felt alive in free fall. Clouds rushed past her. When she was a little girl she dreamed of angels, little plump baby cherubims flitting among the downy clouds. She would frolic with them, leaping from puff to puff, and they would have snowball wars. Snowballs like small comets shedding chlorofluorocarbons and ice in the thin cold reaches. She remembered catching God square in the face, his smile of shock. The wind tore the chuckle from her lips.

Ka-chump! Firing downwards the marshmallow canister, she tucked her knees and straightened into a dive. The canister impacted and exploded in a rapidly expanding bubble of translucent gelatin. She punched through and the gel absorbed her mass velocity, bulging, spreading it along its circumference. She tumbled slowly, turning to land in a crouch. She could see small impacts bursting small bubbles in the gel. They were shooting. Wait, wait, wait. The gel destructured and foamed to the ground. She slid, her guns haloing. In a smell of carbine smoke, she had dispatched an entire squad.

The layout burned bright in her mind as she unerringly traversed labyrinthe corridors, squeezing off bursts of her rifle with heavily rehearsed rote. She fired at empty doorways and danced past falling corpses whose rolling eyes showed they didn’t know they were dead. Running, wild and fast like in the green fields of her childhood where butterflies kept pace in a squall of grasshoppers and crickets, her trigger fingers blazed tracers of bullets thin and deadly. She dashed into a stairwell, shedding a mine as she ran steadily upstairs.

A miniature rocket launcher did the job, punching the door inward into a flurry of burning splinters. She ran into the smoke with her eyes closed, her trained legs flawlessly navigating every obstacle. At the desk, she stopped, knelt, and looked at the framed picture. The frame was brightly coloured, as if painted by a child’s hand. The picture showed a little girl with a beaming smile, tongue sticking through the gap where her baby teeth had fallen out. So the higher ups had a heart. Usually it was money or damaging information. Sasha brushed an unexpected tear from her eye, and grabbed the picture.

The thopter whirred into her line of vision. “Right on time. Not too bad of a chap, after all,” she said as she placed her foot on the edge of the roof and threw herself into eternity.

After the mission she took him in the locker room and fucked him until the cartoon sunshine of a thousand megatons filled her body with incandescent ecstasy. She dressed and left him in a gasping heap, smiling cruelly as she pushed out the locker room.

The Bitch Witch

She had many names, which was quite proper for somebody who had lived so long and moved on so often, but we will call her Mab for that is her name now in this particular time and age, Mab the bitch witch everyone loved to hate, the bitch witch everyone depended on for their sad secrets.

See Mab in the forest, in her shack. The shack is overgrown, wrought with morning glories and yagé, the twining vines of introspection, and a musk of cinnamon and jasmine and vanilla suffuses the wet air. Honeybees bumble about those flowers and parcel dizzying properties to their hives. Dilapidation reigns in the warped beams and crooked flue and the flapping eaves, but this is a ramshackle farce, for entering the house finds oneself in a cozy space, hearth warm in the winter, cool as stone in the hottest summer.

A cast iron pan hangs above the cast iron stove. Stainless steel kettle. Embroidered rug. A hempen hammock dangling from the rafters. Various herbs drying in bunches on the walls. Glass bottles of all sizes and colors on shelves along one wall, also hung on hooks and roped to the rafters. Mab herself is seated in a burnished rocking chair sipping tea from a finely rolled spliff. Through the artful smoke rings that litter her atmosphere, her hair is brown shot with gray, and she moves with slow lithe grace. She puts down the smoldering roach and putters about her abode. Now, Mab needs to go to the market.

As soon as she left her door she affected a humpbacked gait, held a cackle at the ready in her throat, and for measure, gave her eyes a good roll. It was a ways before she entered the perimeter of the town, marked by the rough translation of rutted dried mud to a relatively smooth pane of dusty road. She rolled her eyes at the beastly children who ran up to her to throw rocks and sometimes eggs. When Mab passed storefronts, the townspeople’s chatter ceased to stony silence, starting up when she was well behind them. Nevertheless, she had hawk ears and heard their prejudices from afar. The General Store lay ahead.

Cruel children hid and sniggered from the shadows of alleys, rags of light moving across their faces. She slipped into the stuffy heat of the General Store and ordered flour, eggs, nails, and dried fish strips. She paid, cackling and rolling her eyes, reveled in the alarm flashing under the shopkeeper’s bushy brows. That one, he had hives whenever he glimpsed women’s underclothings. He came to her one blustery night bloated with hives on his hives. He couldn’t see through one eye and his words were slurred. Apparently he had deviated with his proper and prim route and passed by the whorehouse. She had him kill a toad and smear its innards on his badonkadonk. It must have worked. The Madame was now part owner of his General Store.

The folk of this town feared her but that never stopped them from going up to Mab in the deep of night to knock tentatively at her splintery door, secrets of pains and curses heavy in their mouth spilling like blood from a pig’s slit neck. The cobbler beating at his leather averted his gaze, him she helped rid with a powder the sores inside his underwear. She cackled and rolled her eyes at him, saw he had blushed. The piemaker flashed her lashes with demure shame. Her husband was frigid so Mab showed her how to rub the button special to make her gush. She had concocted a bullshit potion for the Mayor’s wife who wanted to curse her husband for running around with his filly; it was bullshit in more ways than one for the mayor’s wife’s ill wishes were all it took for the filly to fall off her horse and break her back. It was sublime pleasure watching the high off noble borne quaff rancid steaming crap and daintily dabbing the corners of her lips with a kerchief, utterly trusting Mab. She had cackled high and long.

Mab walked through town without much trouble but for the infernal children. She shot a dart from her sleeve, small as a rose’s thorn, and it caught a red-haired brat in the neck. He slapped at it, probably thinking it was a skeeter. She cackled at them and they scattered like pestilent rats. The boy would have interesting dreams tonight. His mother would be stunned at the aftermath and burn the shamed boy’s sheets.

Mab had a bag stashed away with her essentials. If worse came to shove, as it often did with a constellation of burning torches in the night, she would small rose thorns dipped in quick acting hallucinogenics inside her sleeve spray, disappear in a swirl of purpleblack smoke and leave the cottage a night bloom of flame at her back. Once she had made the Slavs think her house run away on feet of chicken.

She cackled all the way to her rickety cabin.

Sexploduction

Sexploduction bursts of miscegeneration. Tattoo on a slender weft of eternity. Hot, futile panting breath.

The female strength ANIMAtes from womb to womb and knits mankind to himself with ANIMUSity.

The yin principle is strong in the micromythical despite the yang’s strength in the macrohistorical.

Two currents stream, the quick river of living flesh and the slow flotsam of events like dead leaves; afloat on the supple passive burbling yoni, the lingam with hot rush creates tales.

The octaves oscillating sextumbling Adam and Eve grapple in the historcycle monomyth leaking ringing notes from the vibrating void.

Shadrach and the Furnace

Evaline so full of original sin—and unoriginal sin—everyone called her Eve. She lingered under the rain soaked awnings of pubs and bars, attaching herself to anyone who would take her. Her cunning drove her to the laps of men who had drugs and booze and board; she said I love you after one hour’s acquaintance. Constantly peripatetic, she would wander to oases of drugs and money then leave when it dried up, like a beast stalking from waterhole to waterhole. She rutted like a macaque with the tenacity of tapeworm.

One evening, in the kaleidoscopic backdrop of a reeling ferris wheel, she met an angry Jew and his friend. They went to his house. During the course of the night she flitted from one to the other like an obnoxious mosquito, spreading her innocent lies like so much dysentery. Shadrach, the Jew, made her for the bloodsucker she was and tried to swat her away. The friend, Sylvester, warmed by unaccustomed female attentions, grew jealous at her deluded flirtations towards Shadrach. Eve gleefuly exacerbated this by continuing to pour her affections onto the Jew.

The question of her legality brought up by Shadrach was blurred with a pastiche of lies on Eve’s part. Sylvester, adjusting his crotch, was smitten, his thought being damn the torpedos and full speed ahead! Shadrach, the ever noble crusader of particular and specific moralities, especially those occurring beneath his roof, championed prudence: “For all you know she could be a grade school student. Look at her! She’s four feet! You wanna explain why you like diddling little kids at every job interview?” He was determined to play babysitter, but as the late hour turned into the wee hours, he gave in to sleep. The inevitable happened and in the morning Sylvester stormed out of the house with Eve.

Eve messaged Shadrach the next day.

SexyEvey: I miss you. I love you. You big man. Beer and weedy.
ShagTheShad: That’s quite a hello. Yes, thank you very much, I’m doing well.
SexyEvey: I come see you. Me so horny. I dress sexy.
ShagTheShad: What about Sylvester? Don’t you try to play him against me.
SexyEvey: Sylvester mad. Won’t beer and weed me. I want, but he mad.
ShagTheShad: Well that’s what you get, being so slutty.
SexyEvey: I am sexy not slut!
ShagTheShad: Don’t bother coming over.

Shadrach and Sylvester sat in Shadrach’s living room. A cigarette smoldered in the ashtray. The mood was grave, even somber.

“I’m sorry. She’s really over eighteen, y’know. She found her license and showed it to me. So I’m off the hook.”

“That’s a relief. I’m disappointed with you… but I’m not mad,” said Shadrach, passing the joint. “You weren’t respecting me in my home. She tried to play us against each other to inflate some misguided sense of self worth!”

“I’m sorry. I just wasn’t thinking, brother.” Sylvester rubbed the circles under his eyes. “I’ve been having a time with the bitch. She won’t let me alone now.”

“Bros before hos, man.” Shadrach looked at him, accepting the roach. “Look, my friend, if I see her again I’ll give her a talking to, straighten her out something good.”

The next afternoon Eve showed up at his house without due notice. Her ride shot out of the driveway as if he was late for a gas station robbery. Shadrach, still in his pajamas, plaid boxers with extra access in the front, tried to flag down the car as the neighbor’s kids giggled and pointed. Shadrach with shoulders so slumped like he was beat to hell with the worries of the world on his bent back walked back to the lawn where Eve stood, beaming up at him. “Damn…of all the times to have the car in the shop.”

Sylvester picked up the phone. “Hello?” It was Shadrach, who said, “Look, the bitch won’t stop with her lies. I’m going to teach her a fucking lesson. Come on over around ten tonight, but don’t come in. It’ll be locked. Just listen at the door.” He hung up and Sylvester took a cigarette out and put it in his mouth.

He crept towards Shadrach’s door, feeling like a burglar and pressed his ear to the keyhole. He could hear furniture moving. He stayed for around thirty minutes before walking slowly back home.

“When I’m done with this and that you can put this in your mouth and tell me how it tastes.”
“Mmph, mmffmph.”
“God, I miss Southpark. I gotta get cable.”
…
“You want a shower?”
“Your water not work.”
“I know…how about a mud bath?”
“Where mud?”
“I know…”
…
“Pretend you’re Santa Claus.”
“Ho ho ho.”
“Heh, heh, heh!”
“What so funny?”
“…um, nothing.”
…
“Who that goatse?”
“I’d like to enlighten you.”
“I wanna drinky wine, but it empty.”
“It’s not for drinking.”
…
“What, wow! Cute hamster!”
“Richard Gere’s was cute as hell too.”
….
“Oh Lord, put me through the fire once more, and I just might burn.”
“I one girl with cup. How many licky?”

Later, Shadrach was heard to say: “I intended to degrade the bitch, but she’s like a cuntroach, and keeps coming back for more.”

Songs of the Morbid

take a dump
its almost as good as going for a hump
it s not as godly as a fart
but in itself it is a form of art
say good bye to your bowels
and go easy on the butt rubbing towels

eat beans, show your appreciation for the gastronomical chorus
beans are a delight to eat and expel
eat beans, and piss your sister off her horse
beans are how you make your butt yell

what makes a burp holy, you may ask
its quite the exciting task
forcing hot air up your esophagus
nothing like a thaumaturgus
to make your day
after a stint at the buffet

on cold days it s a major dwarf,
but get it going, it ll morph
into something gosh darn tall,
(or at least it thinks so)
always up for a good ball
(though its known to blow)
get it too eager
its mind becomes meager
and its single eye is bound to tear
and shrink without a care

it can be as yellow as the sun
or have the color of none
some hours it s an ocean pouring out
other hours it s a drought
nevertheless its always good
because you know you should
your kidney will thank you
besides, its faster than a poo

Little dumb almost obscene ditties I wrote in 2005 during bouts of insomnia. Also from my old blog. These will go into a category called Retrospace which will contain pieces written before the formation of this blog.

My Crazy Wife… the Sequel

My wife.
So vital… so insane.
A feral creature from the mire of human legend.
She lurched above me.
Pounding me into the bed.
I felt a beam break.
There goes another paycheck.
She howled fuck the Red Sox!
I wondered what the Red Sox had done to her.
Fuck the White Sox!
That I could understand.
Bleaching whites weren’t exactly her strongest suit.
She collapsed over me.
Buried my face in her lovely quivering globes.
And proceeded to choke me half to death.
Good time for the bed to split apart.
Like the San Andreas fault.
Sweet, sweet air!
There’s such a thing as too much love.
Almost worth that nail in the ass.
Still gasping for oxygen, I looked up.
Big mistake.
Not again.
I knew I shouldn’t have installed that chandelier.
For the third time.
You would have thought I’d have learned something.
Me Jane, you Tarzan!
A shadow descended upon me.
Oh crap.
My wife.

A sequel to a blast from the past! This is an old entry from a blog of mine that has been since defunct, but lives on as the newest addition to my blogroll. This was written in 2005 and was inspired by the hilarious capers of Ross H. Spencer, one of the most underrated noir comedy writers. His books are difficult to find but I recommend grabbing a copy if you should happen to find one. His stories are extremely funny and are very easy to read, often in one sitting.

We’ve Got It Backwards

The people in green surround her stirruped form. A man holds her hand and pride brims in his eyes to spill down his cheeks. It was a girl! the doctor cries, and the man shlupps the umbilical. The doctor bends down with the quieting child. With a quick push, and a gasp from the woman, the infant slides in almost without effort. An easy pregnancy. The woman glows proudly through her sweat and the man wipes at his tears.

Nine months, huh? she smirks at him. Boy oh boy, he slaps a forehead, looks like I won’t be able to hit the pub with my friends. Hee hee, she giggles, yes you can, but no drinking! Ain’t fair I can’t get a pint in me too. They beam at each other.

Honey, my ankles feel less swollen, she looks mangily at him. He, dogged with ragged exhaustion, stoops and strokes her legs. Oh! I feel her moving! C’mon, quick! Her smile is wonderful and he can forgive her. His hands enfold her bump and traces the strong motions underneath. He presses his ear against her navel. Seven is a lucky number.

We’re at five months now, she chatters proudly at her friends as she absently fondles her bump. They throng around her and place manicured hands onto her bare flesh. Ooh! I felt it! They giggle like a pack of hyenas.

It’s so small, she murmurs. ‘Course, honey. We’re only three months along, he reassures. Tomorrow, we return the crib. Yes, she looks at him from her book, don’t forget the stroller as well.

It’s time, her eyes glowed, for the baby! He absently looks at her, walks to the calendar, peers over his spectacles. That time of the month, huh? Their lips meet and their bodies grind in well rehearsed congress. In the warm sucking darkness, the ovum spits out plop! the spermatooza and recedes into its soft wall. Like a thin line of ectoplasm threading a moonless night, the lone sex cell gushes into his member and returns to the snug state of spermatogonium.

Hysteria circa 59 R.A.

The bekkenkneed is a daunting task and taxing to the muscles of the forearms and digits. A prolonged repetitive motion is unfortunately necessary and it is essential to formulate a rhythm and maintain it. Otherwise you set back yourself and put off the instigation of convulsions by hours. My rheumatic hands cannot keep up, but I must continue this research! My more liberal colleagues have advocated the time-saving usage of the tongue, but these men are syphilis infested dogs, their minds wasting away with their age. The turf of the prone graphic fen berg is inundated with mystery and a regrettable lack of documentation. It is said before the the sky fell and crushed the men undercloud, we had an extensive knowledge of such territories. It is to regain that forgotten knowledge that I belabor myself to stare deep into the dark crook of these impoverished creatures and piston my arm towards exhaustion and scientifically document their responses to external stimuli. My handwriting suffers because of this. But there is something missing, something crucial to the process that lingers at the tip of my tongue… if only it would come to me.

late nights

Among stars like sultry winking glances the apple-cheeked moon, wreathed with tendrils of blackest night, floats above a rocking sea.