A semen-slathered robotic arm held the Log Lady’s log.
A sliver of the intrepid selfie it helped take would drift
through Special Agent Dale Cooper’s Power-Point presentation.
A catapult stationed in the heart of Saturn’s ball pit
would distort the sky; on entering our atmosphere, its rubbery
payload would catch fire in fern-like strobes.
Lynch lets us explore the weird stages of “home” for the can opener;
babies veggie-crawl from the mouths of evil squeeze-bots
that assist in virgin births. Metallic rooftops swarm
the mystery shoe.
Curly horse head wrapped in Neanderthal bandana abuzz with recreating bonds –
for inside this wonderland-helmet a glass Earth’s sinuses
puff drone-transmissions. Laura Palmer’s yearbook pic reverberates with
extracts from an afterthought, as preludes to an alternate reality but also as bait.
The Museum of Modern Art was mostly empty.
Aya and Roland left their bags in reception and picked up a guide book. Romania was still pulling itself out of oppression, it said. And only now were artists operating under real freedom of expression.
“I prefer oppression art,” Roland said, looking at a picture of one of the exhibitors in the guide. The man had a flawless face and a long list of credentials from other countries. Apparently he’d done something hugely impressive in Holland ten years ago, and now he was back home, making art in Bucharest.
“You don’t prefer oppression art…” Aya said, looking at the guide.
“No, you don’t. You think you do, but you don’t.”
“And why’s that?”
“Come on, let’s just…” she pointed forwards into the nearest room.
“Fine. Lead the way then.” Read more…
In 2247, a secret science experiment conducted in the desert near Almeria, Spain created a quantum rip in the space quantum continuum and the Hitler from an alternative 1923 found himself face to face with the Hitler from the 1923 we know of.
Despite identical faces and the vortex above their heads, they did not shoot each other.
‘Are we the same?’ Quantum Hitler asked, dusting off his jacket.
‘I don’t know.’
‘What year is it?’
‘Ah, six months behind…’
‘Nothing. What are you doing?’
‘Planning a putsch.’
‘A putsch? But I just stopped…’
‘It’ll be glorious.’
‘…that.’ Read more…
Another bad fiction, this one by Wayne Scheer and heavy-loaded with similes…
If you want to know about the good stuff Wayne writes, check out his bio literally one line below this one:
Wayne Scheer has been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net. He’s published stories, poems and essays in print and online, including Revealing Moments, a collection of flash stories, http://issuu.com/pearnoir/docs/revealing_moments. Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife and can be contacted at email@example.com.
meaty squiggle, ready
Escaping the synth-fueled circus,
Donnie Darko wallows in
the prism; tap water alters his
in nostrils, digital-green.
Slime holds euthanasia-tubing
Grapple with a combination
of evil robot whodunit
and neolithic fungus’s inherent
Unfriend an X-Man.
Ghostly FB search results.
Rare hopelessness offered by the
Adult droid showing asshole.
Abducted by aliens.
Sensitive electric ass-acne.
Flying backwards drowns dinosaurs
in a clock’s continuum.
The batting doormats
of ruined eyelids.
The dancing foreskin monster
merely entangled with the illusion
of a convenience store:
like laughter inside an ATM,
his starship coasts through stringy space.
I am merely a Freddy Krueger
corrupted by a bath,
fog machine syndrome drooping under haunt-
Gaseous D&D fluffing puppy fabric.
A soap opera
of ornamental plague
rained by demon skull.
Genre: Existential thriller
Setting: Romania, Croatia, Italy, Slovenia, Spain
Characters: Man [Ryan Gosling], Receptionist [Diane Kruger], Science fiction writer [Vincent Cassel], Jazz Singer [Michelle Williams]
There is a man lying in the bath. On the floor next to the tub is a bag that seems to be packed full of money. The man stares at it. Then at the window. Then at the walls. There is a painting of the colour black on one of the walls. He continues to stare at it. Music comes from another room. Is it the same room or the one next to it? The man dries one of his hands using only his fingers and then puts the hand over his face and pushes himself under the water. He stays there for a few minutes, maybe more as the camera speeds up a little or shifts, then comes back up. He doesn’t breathe heavily, he isn’t panicked. He gets out of the bath, picks up the bag of money and exits the bathroom.
Huh? He goes into the bedroom and the music is louder. There is a woman lying on the bed, and when she sees him she smiles and asks if there’s still water in the tub. The man says, ‘sure.’ She gets up and points back at the map she left on the table. ”I’ve been planning out our route.’ The man says nothing. ‘Yeah, tomorrow I think it’s best if we head to Budapest. Get the overnight train, arrive sometime early morning.’ The man looks at the map and says, ‘what about Zagreb?’ The woman says no, Zagreb is no good. ‘But I wanna go to Zagreb,’ the man says. ‘Well, if you wanna go like a thousand million miles off course and pay for it then sure, let’s go.’ The man stares at her. ‘Whatever…’ he says. The woman goes into the bathroom and we hear her singing along to the music. The man lies down on the bed, looking over at his bag of money, then at the i-pod playing the music. He listens for a few seconds then gets up, picks up a pen from the table and disappears into the bathroom. Read more…
This is the first piece of bad fiction we’re putting up as part of our contest [not including that Icy Lake thing, that was done by us as an example]
It was written by Melissa Osburn, it’s about a werewolf, and it’s mostly shit.
If you want to see Melissa’s good fiction/stuff, go here:
A Wolf in Gentleman’s Clothing
[AKA: Holy Fuck, it's Wolf-man, man]
It was a stormy night. The winds howled, they were insatiable hungry beasts and thunder roared with indignation. The occasional blinding forks of lightning splashed the landscape in bright, haunting light. The trees swayed, called to dance with abandon and their skeletal limbs grazed the windows of the house, scraping with frenzied cries of help along the glass. You could hear the SOS in their branches tapping on the glass.
The occupants of the house paid no mind to the tempest outside, having lit fires in their hearths to stave off the infernal cold drafts and lit lamps to fill the rooms with light that also fought off the cold. Soft, light jazz wafted from the parlor, the scratchy sound of the record lent a reassuring air to the cozy interior but all was not well for another storm was brewing within. A quiet storm, a familial storm, a tempest brewing within the family because something had come to light that made several of them unhappy.
“She’s deplorable and horrible, Sophia is,” Thomas said hotly. The newspaper in his hands shivered as if caught in a storm.
“Oh, Thomas, don’t be such a worrying ninny,” Maddie laughed, her hands deftly working on a bit of needlepoint, which she had worked on yesterday as well and was continuing to work on now. “She’s only a child for Heaven’s sake and your daughter.” The last was pointed, a barb intended to silently pierce Thomas’s heart and release a flood of dark, gooey guilt. Guilt marred Thomas’s face, twisting it with regret and remorse. The newspaper ceased its shivering, quieting its rustle.
“You know, love, you’re right, Maddie dear. I guess I am often too hard on Sophia. I just expect so much from Sophia. As our only child, much is expected from Sophia,” Thomas said softly. Maddie nodded in agreement, agreeing with what he said. Read more…