It was an ugly petit bourgeois house in a suburb of Paris, noteworthy only for its proximity to the dump where Marie Antoinette assumed unreal dignities. Bruno Quelcon was the second son of a tedious and mannerless man who lounged around in detective overcoats, dreaming of being a matinee idol, whereas in fact his looks were singularly unremarkable. His wife was a neurotic French bitch who alternated between moaning about food and screaming at her family. The other son, Olivier was a kleptomaniac liar. Perhaps Mr Quelcon had a mistress. But his wife Marie only ever moaned when out of the bedroom. Continue reading ALCATRAZ FETISH by Richard Godwin
After dark, I’ll return to the crimson room at the top of the stairs, my tiny home in the seedy part of town, where the junkies and alkies O.D. on a cornucopia of poisons and feast on freaky visions. But in the early morning or afternoon, I sit in Eros Park and count the myriad objects of beauty. Some mornings, I come to the park about an hour before dawn. I wait for the light, the crepuscular insects, and a glorious, gold sunrise. I take a few deep breaths, close my eyes, and listen to the holy rhythm that soothes me, and imagine I’m floating in a sun-baked ocean or lying in the hot iridescent sand on a pristine beach below a tropical sun. And I listen to the melodious ebb and flow of the turquoise waves. Continue reading THE CRIMSON ROOM AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS By Dr. Mel Waldman
Pancho killed the bulls with flair. Continue reading The Matador by Catfish McDaris
It was two and one quarter hours into Hawaiian Shirt Day when it became clear that Margaret needed to die.
I felt the intense fission of fear as I logged on to check my mail. It was only a matter of time, now, and I knew it. I wondered about the moment everything thing had changed; when I first realised that blackmail had crept into my life, like a thief in the night, stealing my sanity away.
They come in looking around Little King’s, it’s a glance that says look at me. They pass by the mirrors, eyes for themselves only, feasting on the couples that hide in the recesses. They don’t see you, they don’t see me. They come to eat. They eat to come. The food is meat. The food is people, names, diaries, lunches, cock. I wait on them. Same crowd. They pass through the square restaurant, past the hunchbacked busboys Danny and David, looking like a pair of comic statues. I’ve served this crowd for months, they don’t even know my name. Not that who I am would be of interest to them. Little King’s used to be called Viande Exotique. Now we have Rupert running the show. Rotund snotty Rupert who needs a blow job more than anyone and will never get it. Not from this crowd. They sit there and talk. My customers.
There’s Bertha, married to Don. I call her The Snatch, he’s The Wallet. She’s mid- forties, overweight, good thighs, wears her skirts too high, shows her cleavage in La Senza, likes to wear her blouses unbuttoned to where you can make out the hint of a black lace, a neat line of the cup on her full tits. She wears too much makeup and yaks about shopping and sex. Don doesn’t hear her, they’re engaged in monologues, he boasts of the money he’s made and talks of his secretary in a lewd manner, thinking his wife doesn’t notice. He wears suits, grease stains on his shirt front, a smutty man heading towards old age with no inhibitions. He touches his phallus from time to time as he eyes passing women. I reckon he likes the company of women with a meretricious streak, makes a low bid and ups it until they let him slide it in. He’s more money than dick, a guy who lives for the moment when he can tell his buddies.
The long-legged blonde with a tattoo of St. Jude on her left arm staggers into the abandoned building, stumbles across a long dark hallway, and descends the stairs into the dimly lit basement. She knocks on a wooden door. Someone looks through a peephole. Slowly, the creaking door opens.
She enters the House of the Dead, a subterranean candy store with a cornucopia of mind-altering drugs. The laconic guard with one eye, an empty socket and a piece in his right hand, mutters, “Okay,” and lets her pass.
She scurries down the corridor like a rat in a maze approaching its coveted reward. At the end of the passageway she turns left and collides with The Ghost, a skeletal albino in charge of the drug den.
“Whatya got for me, Laura?”
She hands him the money.
“You need a fix, Laura,” he says maliciously, as he glances at her convulsive body and trembling hands. “Go sit in the corner and wait.”
After she shoots up and mellows out, she smokes and ingests a smorgasbord of poisons. Nikki, the androgynous necromancer, slithers up to her. Looking up at the pretty sorcerer with lapis lazuli eyes, she whispers, “Come back another time, darling. Don’t feel like talking to the dead now. Just chilling.”
“Of course, sweetie. But how about a quick Tarot reading?”
Gazing quizzically at the adept magician, she asks, “How much?”
“For you, me lovely princess, in this beautiful moment, here and now in the House of the Dead, it’s free.”
Four days ago, when you stumbled out drunk from the nightclub, you stopped short and felt a painful stirring deep in your belly. Continue reading Fetus in Fetu by A.C. Glasier
Her skin is pale with a hint of blue, like a porcelain doll crafted by a mortician’s hand. Crystalline-like eyes sit in sockets too large for her pixie-like skull and when she brings the poison apple to her lips for dramatic effect, she looks human. But she’s not. She’s a Dolbot: G-43 model, the most realistic android in production. For me, they aren’t hard to spot. I build them for a living.
In the wasteland of Brooklyn, New York, I, Dan T. Matthews, sit on my tiny terrace clutching an old hardcover copy of Carlos Castaneda’s The Teachings of Don Juan. On this dog day afternoon in August, I devour strawberry shortcake, White Russians, the designer drug XES, and Carlos’s hallucinogenic visions. Continue reading Forbidden Island By Dr. Mel Waldman