Do you know how fucked you are?
Let me explain exactly how fucked like a passed out prom date’s dry asshole you really are.
You scratched the paint. You think a guy like me, drives a different car every day, wouldn’t care about that shit. But this car don’t belong to me. It belongs to the boss. He lent it to me for the day, because he knows I like quality. I got it in the Continue reading FUCKED by Thomas Pluck
The small waiting room on platform 2 is full of a non-specific stink – kind of stale smelling, and a little bit toiletly. On an orange plastic chair that is screwed into the dirty, brown-tiled floor I wait for the 15:26 train to Liverpool Street, which is fifteen minutes away. The door opens and while a man with a walking stick hobbles in I try to fill my lungs with some fresh air before the door swings shut again, sealing me back in with the stench. The man with the stick sits down directly opposite me.
Everything you can’t help because it’s part of your nature is no way to go through life, but that’s the way most people feel obliged.
Cam, for instance, hated the water. »I never learned how to swim«, he explained, illustrating with the windmill sweep of his arms the manner by which he would probably drown.
»Big deal«, Jil said. Twelve years old and cloaked ambiguously in a tutu, she steered Cam back upstairs. »I’ve seen ’em Continue reading Plain H2O; A Punk Stain For People With A Maid by Craig Eldon Reishus
This Makes It Even
We were cruising on Wilmont in the ’91 Z-28 Camaro ragtop and enjoying the first truly summer day. The sun was out and hot. There was a slight breeze stirring the trees lining Wilmont and young girls were strutting their stuff in tank tops and scandalously short cut-off raggy blujeans. It felt good to be alive. Funny how one’s luck can change in the blinking of an eye.
Continue reading This Makes It Even/Dues Paid by B.R. Stateham
Staring out the window of my father’s two-story house up in Brundle Hills , North Carolina , watching the sunlight creep across the leaves on the maple tree below.
The way the leaves grow a little closer each and every year.
Two men were sitting in a small, square shaped room with large mirrors on one of the walls. Each one was facing the other over a small, metallic table. One dressed all in orange which matched his fiery red hair and pale skin, the other in grey coat and trousers and a red tie. One was completely at ease and smiling, the other tense and angry. Both were silent for some moments, then the man in the grey coat took a half empty pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, took one out and ignited it. The other man grinned.
Fuck those people Bucky thought to himself. It was 1995 and he hated Bill Clinton. He hated George Bush the previous president too. Bucky despised all politicians and most people in general. He loved Jazz though.
Continue reading The Man Who Could Care Less by John McNeeley
Miriam Clendon lay down the small bunch of flowers and pulled her coat tight around her aging body. The wind was biting today, whipping into the coast and rolling up and over the cliffs that formed the border between the village and the sea, battering the dwindling clumps of farms and cottages that formed Flintsea.
The cop’s decision to wear his bulletproof vest 24/7 combined with a lack of exercise during the holiday season had slowed him considerably. His dashboard camera revealed a weary, slow-moving man who’d forgotten most of his training when it came to approaching vehicles, and he was clearly unaware of what was about to happen.
By Richard Godwin
Joshua drew them to their gestation and summoned the night from an open coffin.
He told Emmanuel he was Moses and sent him the sign and showed him the doorway through which they would travel.
PULP METAL MAGAZINE 