College Fuck Book

Two hot college girls on “College Fuck Book” want to sleep with you this weekend !

They live near you and have shown clear interest in meeting and sleeping with you !

At this moment, there are 554 girls online right in your area looking for a man !

 

Spammi Fuckbot

Hot Ass Fat Ass Saturday Night

I ate my ass off in the five and dime but Gina was working the register and no one fucked with me. There was a bag of Cheez Doodles, okay, and a Moon Pie or two or three and a liter of Mr. Burp soda and a package of Halloween ghostcakes and six or seven different kinds of candy bars, all of them containing nuts because crunch crunch crunching is what my teeth do best. The color scheme was pussy pink and puke green and piss yellow. My eyes have seen much glory. On the greeting card aisle the news of the day was Love No Matter What. Yeah, you stole my credit cards and maxed them out, cheated on me with a dancer named Cinnamon and chewed my mama a new asshole when she asked you to take out the garbage because it was starting to stink. Hell, you even ran over my poodle (John Boy Walton) and told me I was an idiot for wanting to have a small funeral in the backyard. I Love You No Matter What. I want to put you in a shopping cart and push you around the big ass store. I want to bump into things, spit gum in your hair, sing you an Elton John ballad, tap dance for you without my underwear on, anything to make you grin and maybe even giggle. Gina told me it was time to turn off the lights and lock the doors. I told her to go ahead. She said okay one last shake of the Magic 8-Ball then we have got to go, Granny is waiting in the car. Granny spoils everything. Goddamn.

 

Lizzie Prizegarden

February 13

He fucked with fury
                     an action
his wife will never know

 

 

Andrew J. Stone

On Rejection

I just received a ridiculous e-mail from a writer whose pieces I rejected. Among other ridiculous things, he wrote, “God bless.” Did I sneeze? I did not, and if I had, I much prefer a simple “gesundheit.” Thank you. This is what I wrote back to the pouting, panties in a wad writer:

Do you often write back to the editors who reject your submissions? I’m sure you’ve received many rejections. Maybe you prefer the usual soulless form rejection that tells you in a nice, gutless paragraph that your words have no value. Your words have no value to me but maybe they have value to somebody else. Good luck with that. And grow the fuck up.

Bert Monroe

PINGPONG JELLYROLL

I escaped the crib

the heat of my mother

and a couple brushes with men 

head full of badges and ammo

when she dangled

the cherry in front of my

face

 

look it, she goes, coy and

tipping her head and

saucy like she

does, look it what I got for you while

you were away

 

it was this tiny pewter statue of

Ganesh,

the Remover of Obstacles.

 

what does it do, I tried to

plug it in, or eat it, and

she’s all 

C’mon, let’s go to the bar,

let’s get some pizza and

hit Pete’s for some

shit

 

done in again, railroaded, I let

her take me down

below the belt,

her creamy hands leading

eyelashes batted and where’s the

cliff edge this time, for

fuck sakes.

 

you look hungry, let’s 

follow Ganesh, and That’s an order, she

said

as I quite gently

removed her leopard skin spiked heel

from my ear canal

to the tune of 

Sheena is a Punk

 

it’s Taco Tuesday at the Bit Saloon,

we can play ping pong, and Pete’s sure to make

an appearance.

 

I let her win the 

war game

on the warped table, new

as I was to the fetid gloom 

of freedom

 

disproportionately obscured by smoke

I’m invited for a session

the lady’s stall, crammed

with her 

fleshy thighs and Rhonda watching from the sink,

jealous as a salivating

mouth.

 

you’ll get yours, honey pie, she purrs,

lapping at the nearly

spent bindle –

Pete gives it good, what I

heard

 

I get the picture.  the walls be-bopped, papered

with posters devising calendars

brazen with sleaze

 

nothing’s free

on Taco Tuesday.

 

 

Jay Passer

A hopeless romantic and not so tidy-whities

My heart cracked 
when I found out
she lived 
a half a world away.

What a funny time we live in 
when you can develop a crush 
on someone who lives 
a half a world away.

I guess there is also the chance
that behind that picture
of dark hair, sexy lips,
and come get me eyes
is a middle aged fat man
somewhere in Ohio
wearing not so tidy-whities
and eating cheese puffs.

Hold the reality.
I’ll have a double shot
of fantasy.
Being a romantic
really sucks sometimes.

 

 

Jay Levon

Dance For A Sun

You’ve been skidding around me

for a few months.

Not enough for me to pull you

like a curtain, towards me,

but plenty to feel you are

tied to the piece of string around my neck

a noose of pirated thoughts,

just for you.

I’ve watched you in a clumsy

shamanic trance,

but it is not going to bring you closer.

Not if you keep slipping,

each stumble locking you

deeper and deeper into the ice.

Where I cannot go.

 

 

 

Valentina Cano

Commodities Day

“I’m back!” Vern shouted and dropped the brown cardboard box of government surplus food onto the kitchen table. Karl strolled in from the living room. “I need to kill Buttons.” Karl looked in the box, found the peanut butter, and opened it. “There’s never bread. What good is peanut butter and no bread?”
“Bread gets moldy,” Vern said. “This stuff stays in warehouses forever. They give us flour to bake our own. They give us all this stuff for free. It’s great. There’s no reason to complain. Why do you need to kill Buttons?”
“He got into a fight with June.”
“How are you planning to do it?”
“I don’t know. Toss him out the window?”
“What stopped you?”
“I can’t find my gloves. You can’t toss a cat without gloves.”
“Sorry. I borrowed them. They’re in my coat pocket.”

….

Downstairs in her studio apartment June was playing Skittle Bowl. There was a knock on the door.
“It’s open!”    

Karl stood in the doorway wearing his gloves and holding the cardboard box. June was sometimes his girlfriend and sometimes not. Right now he wasn’t sure. The top of the box was taped shut.
“June, I have good news.”
“If it’s that cat it better be dead.” June’s arms and face were scratched.
“It’s commodities day, June. Vern just got back. You’re invited for dinner.”
“Thanks, but I have cancer.” 

June set up the pins and swung the ball. Nine. She swung it again, made the spare, and marked it on the score sheet.
“Why do you think?”
“Why do I think what?”
“Why do you think you have cancer, June?”
“Oh, that,” June said. “My private area is green.” She started to cry and made only six.  Next swing left one. An open frame. Her game was ruined. She said, “Fuck!”
“Let me see,” Karl said.

June unzipped her jeans and pushed her panties to the side. “See?”
Karl knelt for a closer look. “You smell like Christmas.”
“That’s just some stuff I bought,” June said.

Karl went into the bathroom and opened the medicine chest. He found the Pine Scented Feminine Deodorant Powder. He poured some into the sink and turned on the tap. The water turned green. Karl and June took a shower together. Buttons clawed his way out of the box and climbed onto the kitchen table looking for food. Instead, he found the Skittle Bowl game and batted the ball with his paw. Pins fell over. Startled, Buttons leapt out the window. Luckily, June’s apartment was on the ground floor. Buttons had never been outside. He liked it a lot.

….

The oven timer bell went off. Vern put on his hot pad mitts and removed the casserole dish. Vern and Karl and June scooped macaroni with cheese and tomatoes onto their plates.

 

Dan Nielsen   

Robots

by Kyle Hemmings

Small Treasures of Stability

Getting off the school bus he inhaled deeply at the sight of her car in the driveway. It was a blue Cadillac, a real piece of junk. The metal was rusted on the edges, making it look like the underbelly of an idle boat in a harbor collecting barnacles. The heater didn’t work, the windows were busted making winter driving an adventure and the brakes squealed like a dying pig. The back bumper was full of dents and various colors from other cars. She always got into accidents; usually after leveling off. She hadn’t used the car in a while because she had her license taken away.

 

The front door was unlocked, as it always was, and the first thing that he noticed was the lack of noise throughout the house. She was probably passed out. She claimed her doctors said she needed to nap daily. He always found it weird that despite being unemployed she was always tired. For a while he thought that she was mad at him but he later found out that it was the alcohol. He’s still not sure what’s worse.

 

She was snoring on the couch. An empty bottle of liquor was on the ground in front of her and the television was tuned into a soap opera. The show was one of the only things that brought a smile to her face.

 

He tiptoed his way past her to the kitchen and started making something to eat. If he didn’t no one else would.

 

“Who’s there?” her voice bellowed from the other room.

 

“It’s just me. I’m making a snack.”

 

He was hoping that she would go back to sleep. She didn’t and struggled to get to her feet.

 

“Well why do you have to be so fucking loud about it? You know that I have to get my sleep.”

 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

 

“That’s your problem, you never mean to. Wait a minute, what are you doing here, don’t you have school?”

 

“It’s four o’clock, school is over.”

 

She stumbled towards the kitchen. He tried his best to remain calm. Already he could see the thick vein in the middle of her forehead beginning to bulge.

 

“Get the hell out my sight! It’s bad enough you woke me up, now you’re giving me a headache.”

 

He silently nodded and began to make his way to his room. He stepped lightly, staying on the tips of his feet, not wanting to make any noise.

 

The screaming began before he finished his math homework.

 

Barely audible at first, it grew louder with each word. She had a way of becoming angrier, and louder, as she spoke, like when she would turn up the volume to some old song in the car.

 

“You little prick, what did you do with my alcohol?”

 

He knew better than to answer. When her anger turned to blind rage, her questions became rhetorical. Besides, nothing he could say would satiate her.

 

It was like a cat and mouse game when she was like this. He had to cower away to some corner of the house and wait out her outburst and then, when it was quiet he could show his face again. He’d gotten good at playing hide and seek when he went to his friends’ houses or on the playground. So good in fact, that no one wanted to play if he was doing the hiding.

 

He double checked to make sure his bedroom door was locked. He fell to the floor slowly, keeping his back against the grainy wood of the door. The feeling, as he slid down to the ground, pricked his back. The pain felt good, relief.

 

He began to sob. He let the warm tears fall down his face until they reached his quivering lips. They tasted salty and bitter; a reminder of his lost childhood, an explanation for why his father had left a long time ago. He wanted to leave with his dad, but he was too young to have a say in it. He wondered if he had started a new family by now, if by creating a replacement one he could finally erase them from his memory.

 

He wanted to make a run for it himself. He knew he could reach the front door before she got to him. He even knew where she hid a spare set of car keys. He’d driven it plenty of times in the past. His mom had made him drive her to the liquor store. He could barely see over the steering wheel. Propped up by a phone book, hands shaky, more nervous of his mom sitting next to him than the other cars on the road.

The yelling stopped. It was followed by a low, subtle, sobbing, echoing throughout the decrepit house, pinning off of each paint peeled wall. They rang through the house long past sundown. It was safe to sleep now. She’d worn herself out; her temper tantrum was about finished. He got under his sheets and pulled his blankets up to his chin as if it were some kind of protective shield. He forced his eyes shut and willed himself to sleep.

 

The alarm clock buzzed, acting as a cattle prod, and he sprang to attention. His sheets were soaked in cold sweat from the night before. He still couldn’t shake the initial intensity of the nightmares that had begun just before dad left. The radio was playing a Billy Joel song. He was singing of a drunk, painting a happy portrait of the hell he was living through. He’d gotten used to sleeping with the radio on, volume low enough to keep his mom from hearing but loud enough to quiet his internal fears, for a moment, and give him a chance at a decent night of sleep.

 

He crept up the carpeted stairs towards the kitchen. He could hear humming coming from above. She was standing at the oven, her back facing him. She turned as he took a seat at the table.

 

“Good morning sweetie. How did you sleep?”

 

She was happy, a completely different look in her eye. She brought over a plate of soggy scrambled eggs and burnt bacon to him. She leaned in and gave him a kiss on his forehead. He could smell fresh liquor on her breath. She had started today’s bottle a little early. Still freshly drunk where she was in a nice mood. He soaked in this mood for as long as he could knowing it was only temporary. Later she would revert to her irritable drunken alter ego.

Living with her made him realize, a long time ago, that he had to treasure the small, daily, treasures of stability.

 

 

Patrick Trotti