THE WILD KEENING OF ANCIENT JACKALS

the wild keening of ancient jackals

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Copyright @ 2023 by Tyler Standen

All rights reserved

Including the right for reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

FIRST EDITION

Cover painting & book design by TS

Cough

The tear drowned smiles of the midnight hour remind me of a future that never transpired. After the ardor wanes, the feelings of today congeal into a viscid mucus that’s inevitable destiny is a cough.

Just Enough Light

Ext ocean pier

Two lovers sit next to one in another on the edge of the pier. Their bare feet sway and kick in the setting sun. They are silhouetted against the reflection of a dying sunlight in the rippling water.

Guy: I remember when I was young I would come here after my dad would beat me. He would get off work, come home and drink. When he ran out of bottles that’s when he would start teaching me lessons with his belt.

Girl: pulls up the sleeve of her jacket and extends her arm. These are the lessons of my father. He liked putting out his camels on me. I remember his Budweiser breath. He would lean in while he was putting them out and tell me that I am going to grow up to be a whore like my mom.

Guy: does he still smoke camels?

Girl: only the ones I don’t steal

Guy: let’s smoke

She pulls out a couple loose smokes from her pocket with a book of matches

Girl: is it weird that smoking gets me horny

Guy: you get me horny

He grabs her thigh higher than usual.

Girl: come now, behave

Girl: the stars speak to me out here. Do you see them calling on us from up there. All those are for us.

Guy: it’s beautiful up there. The stars are bright tonight

Guy: I brought the gun. And six little stars.

A Whale

Seagulls swarm in circular patterns above the sharp, penetrative rocks backing the sand. The shore is thick with rotting seaweed and fish parts. Waves crest and splash against the sides of a massive whale carcass that became dinner for crabs and birds weeks ago. Bones and putrefying flesh is all that remains. It’s ribcage has become an aviary for hundreds of winged friends, flying about, perching, nesting, pecking at flesh. The decaying body is painted with a gray and white sludge of bird excrement.

Darlings

We stand on tops of things. We jump high. In the glow of stars and streetlights we come to life. Broken bottles crash on asphalt. Cigarette smoke plumes amidst the halogen glow. We laugh at the top of our lungs. The night laughs back. Glass breaks in sacrifice to the solitude of night. Windows of abandoned buildings all lined up for a midnight slaughter.

A Big-Wheel Accident

A loud smash. A flash of light then black. Sirens wail. The boy would never hear the windshield shatter. He would never hear the sirens. He would never hear the crying screams from his mother. The boy was dead.

Walter James, the young boy who was playing in the vacant lot across the street, now stands still. So stiff you could mistake him for a post on the “For Sale” sign planted in the corner of the lot. Walter remembered the dead boy from school. He was the kid who broke off the end quarters of a pencils and pretended he was smoking cigarettes. Walter didn’t understand;Why did the boy not stop?. A sick feeling dove straight into his stomach. He could taste the candy bar he ate minutes earlier. Walter’s hand grips his mouth after having the thought run through his mind that the now dead boy he knew from school would never eat another candy bar again. Thick, mocha tinged fluid spurts between the boys clenched fingers. He wouldn’t stop throwing up for nearly another five minutes.

Crackling; the plastic big-wheel tires on the asphalt. Screeching; the sound of braking rubber tires. The boy did hear windshield shatter. The boy did hear the sirens screech. He felt no pain as he looked across the crevices of the concrete intersection where his now head lay. He was bleeding; bad. But the boy didn’t know or see his blood while coming in and out of conciseness. A man he didn’t recognize kept repeating, “Don’t move kid, don’t move kid” while holding his head and neck still. The boys spine was broken, and his neck resembled a question mark. The man holding the soon to be dead boy began to cry as a result of picturing his own young boy there dying in his hands. The dying boy had one thought run through his mind. He hoped to see his family one last time. He thought of his....and as quickly as it started the thought ended. Everything ended for the boy.

Today Was Her Birthday

Through the richly bold and sweet flavor of her morning coffee the metallic taste of blood was still overwhelming. It made her feel comfortable, content-A warm nostalgia of her teenage years back when her father would say hello to her with a slap to the face. Sometimes he said hello a lot. Sometimes a lot wasn’t enough. Today was her birthday. She stares into a hard water stained mirror and starts to do her makeup in a manner that shows she quit caring a long time before. The still-pale sky softly penetrates through her clouded bathroom window, spilling onto the clothes and towel piled floor. A constant hiss of a running toilet is far more audible than it should be and it fills her apartment. Her cold cup of coffee sits next to a makeshift tray overflowing ash and cigarette carcasses onto the table top. She digs through the carcinogenic graveyard to find a half burned smoke to light. It’s in her mouth and lit as quickly as she found it. The tired smoke tastes old and brings her to cough ever so slightly in adjustment.

They Don’t Even Sell Pancakes

Ext night

Lit with the red rear lights of a car we watch as she walks towards us. The sunset behind her. She approaches and stops standing in complete red. She takes in a breath with a cigarette and exhales. Through the car window we watch her walk to the open passenger window and lean in

“I told you to pick me up at the corner. Now I sweated off my eyes”

She peers into the side mirror to look at herself.

“See”

“I’m sorry babe I didn’t think you meant that corner”

“Seriously!?

She gets in. Frustrated.

“You look smokin hot!”

Her hand stops him from leaning in for a kiss.

“Not a chance”

I told you last time dude(sarcastically) I’m not your babe and you need not comment of my fucking looks. K. Thanks. (Akward pause) Now…did you get it?

“Get what”

Seriously!?

“Why would I help you out when you’re mean like that I was just hoping maybe you would let me...” His hand reaches out for her exposed thigh, caressing it.

Her hand sets on top of his calmly and then she yanks hard.

He yelps like a puppy

“ you got small balls I’ll give you that but you’re dumb as fuck if you think I would let your fast food fingers, deep fried acne ass touch me. Give it here.”

He reaches under his seat and pulls out a fast food bag, greasy as him and sets it on her lap.

“For reals”

She pulls out a revolver and looks at it (like she has any idea what she’s looking at or doing. She’s just seen it in movies and it’s working) She tosses a handful of twenty’s on his lap.

“ I was worried it wasn’t enough but now I don’t give a fuck

You still going to drive me to your cute ass brothers party right?”

“He told me to stay away tonight. “

“Bitch please. I got you. Let’s roll. We have to pick up Danni first. “

“Is she still working at dennys or some shit?”

“Village inn. Not the restaurant, the motel. And they don’t even sell pancakes at that shit.”

Marrow Bone

I realized only after a very short amount of time that I was nothing more than a soup bone; marrow and flesh boiled off into vat sending all I had to offer into a new. Bare and alone at the bottom of the pot I wait for the inevitable discard.

The Town was Left Speechless

The decomposed remains of a smile were found today. A person of interest is being sought after witness say they saw “ A man with a frown” leaving the scene of the crime

Two Perfect Bolts

She stood above him. Looking down at her design. Her creation. The parts came together easier than she anticipated. Expectations of an arduous task dissipated as soon as she started sewing. The flesh stitched together with little to no effort. Inside the thermostat read 55degrees. Nice and cold; This way the blood would lack the energy to spurt. Instead, it would ooze with each poke and pull of the needle. The hard part had not presented itself until it came to stitching skin to steel. She set the needle down and began to sift through the stacked boxes and crates that were wallpapered from floor to ceiling. “Where was it” she thought to herself as her hands fumbled through s blue crate. Her fingers grasped a cold stainless jar. She grips the top and twists. The jar makes a clanking sound. Inside, you may have guessed it; bolts. Some rivets too but mostly stainless bolts. She picks out two. Two perfect bolts.

Atonement

My heart bleeds feathers of the angels I’ve devoured. To drink the tears of angels weeping is nothing less than divine. Holy water in its purest state. The amassed collection of halos weigh me down far below a level than that of a decaying marine bird. Each one hung around my neck and body in hopeful adornment to feel complete.

through the broken panes of havana

Through the broken panes of Havana enshrouded by a gaunt palms shadow resting her head in the frame of her bent arm, lost in thought of her rundown heart. It was only three weeks since her smile fell away down the rain heavy gutters, along with the trash. Monsoon season brought more than the rain to the island. It brought a springtime sadness. The blossoms coalesce with tobacco smoke in redolent wafts through her open window. Reminiscent to her childhood memories on her grandfathers farm, it brought her calm for the first time in weeks. A beloved stillness for her mind. Getting up from her midday rest and giving dissolution to the problems roaming her mind she prepares a cup of coffee. She sits back down by the window and the sun, staring out at the faded pink and blue buildings lining the street. horns from tired cars serenade with the birds and squawking people. What a glorious place that progress forgot. Here she felt right at home. It was like living in an old Technicolor movie from the 50s. Where dames had control over the well dressed men. Control was something unknown to her lately.

allow me to make a toast to the ingested revenants peace to souls with names blackened out by the passing of time emeralds thrown to sand grains sustain their malnourished masses stealing the beauty it touches.

I could pay to be in your arms every night? Not with money, but with wishes. Just to think of that delight Brings my wishes to life. To have such things come true I must confess would be a dream To raft down the streams that are your eyes. And I could become lost there On the retinal banks I will find myself lost with you

Parade of Lost and Forgotten

The rustling of branches in wind made me realize I want more from existence. The experience of the breeze, bound-less and constant; touching all life as it glides past. To carry leaves along as I go. A boundless accompaniment of remnants would be a parade of lost and forgotten. All the discards in search for a home following and flowing until they find solace in anew. A tickle of cold paves the way for goosebumps along my arms as I stand in your blowing embrace. If my heart was lighter I would go with you.

The space between the kiss

Is farther than I wish

A distance that I miss

Longing for your lips

Awaiting to collide

Comets of your eyes

Fall in the skies

Of mine

The space between the kiss

Leaves me faint and breathless Closer we become

We implode into one One and only one Sun

A Strangling Ovation

Spinning in a spotlight of ones tears

Dedication falls in a succession of droplets

Sweat and crying

The expels of devotion

Her face torn from any resemblance of a smile

And left with an autonomous gaze.

Miles and miles of ribbon twirl in the wind behind her

All those years stretched out into strands

Due to the nature of ribbons things get tangled

Destiny comes to light

As the ribbons coat in dense layers around her throat. A strangling ovation

The entire event including those inside have a common veneer, plasticized in the same attire and look. A corporate gloss that makes him sick.

There is a defined elegance to the air around us all. Some choose to breathe it while others take every chance to expel it. A graceful beauty we are given as a gift is spoiled by our thoughts. A depreciation dwells deep under all the smiles. A joyful glee chortles under streams of tears. Streams turn to rivers. Rivers turn to oceans. Our bodies , our earth is made up of these oceans. All that brings life is born from tears.

A prolonged degradation of the purity within oneself

Screaming for Something That Cannot Be

I’m trapped within my encasing Screaming for something. The fleshy walls reverberate and echo. My delirium and discontent . This pulsating cage putrefies Every waking thought. Every waking moment. No amount of tears can unlock and let me free. A wasteland of dreams smolders Every flickering flame is fanned with each inhalation. All that’s left for me is memories Breathless memories of what was supposed to be. I just want to be free. Screaming for something that cannot be.

Fucking Son of a Motherfucker

He spent the nights lost in thoughts of days lost. Going over and over the things he left unfinished and unaccomplished, which most days was everything. Tying shoelaces was too much and after looping the left shoe he would just stuff the laces of the right into his socks. This is what kept him up at night. Being lonely can be a curse but then again he like being cursed. He also liked cursing. An inherited tongue of a sailor the shopkeep used to say. Fuck him, goddamned son of a bitch.

Sweet Moonlight

The moonlight was sweet. Like sugar. It brought a comfort to her. It reminded her of holding hands. Holding the hands of the moon while she walked. There was no gift like the presence of a moon. She couldn’t help but feel envious of planets she read about. To think there are places with more than one moon. She could taste the moonlight on her lips. Sweeter than before. Nothing greater than the craters on your face she thought as she stared into the big white orb cresting above.

her period piece

The opulent decor came across bland next to the aggrandizing gowns that sat atop of it. White lace gloves gripped tea cups ever so delicate. The elegant gossip drowned out the rain tapping upon the window panes. This tapping caught the attention of young lady Mary. Her mind drifted from the conversation and into the rain, she saw herself spinning in the downfall. Her hair free and her dress dancing alongside her, the trim weighed down with mud. She fancied herself free as the rain.

“Mary my dear, don’t you concur with Lillie’s sentiment about Lord Riley”

Her mind was immediately back into the gossip. She raised her teacup to her ruby lips giving her a pause for thought as she silently sipped.

“Alas, miss marseille my sentiments are not what’s important, it’s the thoughts of young Rebecca that dictate your answer.”

Rebecca coughs on her tea in surprise of inclusion into the conversation. Her eyes widen as a smile stretches across her pale face in excitement to answer

“ Yes madam, I do agree, he is beyond reproach with looks as agreeable as his”

“ I hear his lips taste of cherries...”

The snickers break her sentence. Her cheeks ruddy by the slip of her tongue.

-------------—finish gossip story, have the girls tell the story of this man. He will propose to Mary in the rain. She will be flustered and slip on the wet stone killing her self.----------------

Beholden

Every glance I steal of you

Fills the pockets of my heart with gold

Coins from times long past and forgotten

Weigh my heart heavy, you see

The amassed treasure of visions of you

Make me the wealthiest man on earth or sea

But alas all the weight of sunken treasure

Sinks my heart deeper and deeper for you

Some day they will find me at the sandy bottom

Filled to the brim with gold

But alas they will never be rich for its wealth of you I hold.

I picked you a flower earlier tonight. While I was sitting at the bus stop it blew away. I set it down only for a second and it was gone.

Dirt, Perhaps

The garish opulence to the gold framed artwork spewed across the walls made her sick. It made her think of chewing dirt. Don’t ask her why it’s just something that was. Just like her life; something that was. Perhaps it was how she grew up poor and all she ever knew was dirt. Perhaps it was how everyone walked all over her and kicked her around just like dirt. Or perhaps it was the dirt on the girls shoes in the painting on the wall. Hard to tell.

There are levels unknown to man and those are the levels you play at. Tiptoeing between the stars and sun. I stare up there in hopes for even a glimpse of you. Every night. Every day.

I wonder if Audrey Hepburn ever said after eating a heavy meal, “ I have some serious Hepburn”

Tiny Things

We spoke to the tears and their only reply dripped down our cheek. The stains of our mind trickle to the floor. There must be a large pool somewhere down below where they all collect. We see them designing stalagmites with every drop. Fascinating to think what is culminated from tiny things. One drop at a time.

Crotch Stitch

The strands pull themselves from each other

Lessening the stability

A sparse expanse of what used to exist

somewhere you feel free

Amatory Parades

refuge of memories ripen amidst a derisive sunshine an expanse inside the heart echoes static reruns of commingled smiles your luminous vices bud in fertile ventricular gardens sun baked virtues warp and gnarl with cultivation blossoming amatory parades

There is something about jumping on the bed as a kid that reminds me of you. A childlike freedom.

There is a deterioration in the gilded weft of my being. A sinuous thread fraying. On quiet days I can picture pulling up the layers of flesh. I dig into myself, shoveling the detris away in some sort of misanthropist excavation. I feel a tinge of pleasure in the process. More akin to a tickle. Yeah, that’s it-a tickle. The sensation fades into a sting as I get deeper and closer to the splinters.

Do you have much experience with watermelon?

Well, that’s a story.

Argument Between Two

The one thing you never answered was why?

I don’t think it’s necessary

Necessary? What do you mean? I think it’s completely necessary

Well I don’t

Is it that hard to be honest?

I have never lied to you

Are you serious right now? I’m asking you why you would have done that.

Cause I wanted to

That seems like a selfish reason

Why is doing something I wanted to do, selfish?

Uhhhh, because we’re together?

Yes but I should be allowed to experience life, even if it’s in another persons pants

I don’t know how to respond to that Well let’s go to Walmart. I need a new coffee maker.

There is a smile on your face and that’s all I want to taste

Kill Your Darlings

We hear a rolling, winding sound and then a click. We hear it again…. Wind… click.

The sound is coming from one of those plastic disposable cameras you purchase at the corner drugstore. We see are young girl. She wearing a sash that says Happy Birthday. Atop her hair that’s messily done sits a tiara. At her feet is a mutilated bouquet of roses. Strewn about like car crash. Wind….click…

We watch as she takes photos of the mess. It’s very personal to her. The shots are remarkable.

We watch a series of stills that are the same photos she is taking.

VO: it’s hard to imagine a world where things are different. Where people are different. A world where you feel okay to be yourself. Like what you want to like. Do what you want to do. Be who you want to be.

(Pause.)

I have always wanted to be myself. Never somebody else like other people. Not movie stars, musicians, painters no one that had their name in lights or stars on the ground. I never understood that- why other people wanted to be someone that already exists. I just wanted to be me.

The frame freezes as the title card of her name hits in sync with the music. Music quickly stops.

Int car

Close in on key in the ignition. We hear the car try to start and the music starts again. Then the car dies. The music stops. We repeat this a few more times before it starts. The music is a full tilt as we drive down a tired small town. Boarded up windows, tired

facades, broken signs let us know this town has been forgotten. Turning down a residential street with car littered yards overtaken by weeds are refuge. We see a familiar face. It’s our birthday girl. We hold her in frame through the windshield as we pull up the frame continues to the driver side window.

Hey birthday bitch

Hey is for horses

Don’t you ever get tired of saying that

Nope

What’s the deal with that (Points down to the rose massacre)

Long story

Get in

Cut to earlier that day We see the birthday girl in the water-spotted mirror of a cluttered and messy bathroom. Getting ready for the day. She excited but feels guilty about it given how old she is. She does her eyeliner. Eyeshadow. Lips. We see her slamming on a pair of old black boots. Keeping the boots in frame we see an epic dress fall down almost covering the boots. Honk. Honk. A loud car horn blasts.

Her face lights up. She grabs her things and rushes out the door. She stops short. From behind, silhouette by the front door we see her look down. She crouches.

We cut to her hand holding roses with a note. Reverse we see how upset she is.

Without reading the note we see her start to murder the roses. We watch the devastation.

We’re back in car.

Wow. Fuck him. I can’t even believe it

I can. It’s always like that

I like what you did with the flowers

I got photos

I love you beautiful birthday bitch!

We freeze on her smiling. Her name title cracks in with full volume music.

Int laundry mat

We see change go into the washer and the knobs turn. The washer starts up with heaving rumble. The smell of communal laundry room makes her sick. It’s all over her expression- misery. We move around in what could be the worst coin op laundry ever seen watching her occupy the time. Talking to strangers. Sticking her fingers into the coin slots. Spinning in the one still working laundry cart. There is someone unloading clothes from the dryer into a shopping cart. She truly makes the best out of misery.

Ext streets

Laundry slung over her shoulder she rides down the street on her bike

Monuments of their gods once towered

Strewn in ruin across the earth

Stone abraded by sand and wind

And by the hands of its legion

To feel their god brought deliverance

Thousands of thousands touch

Over time appetency for fervent embrace

Degenerated to theft

Thousands of thousands take

To possess their savior

To palpate their god

The monuments were generous; And finite

Embrace caused extinction

Legions long lasting tell tales

Of when they held god

Date Night Workbook 1943

Ext Drive in Theater

A large screen of a drive in that has seen better days flashes light across the cars in the parking lot. The Mummy 1932 is their viewing pleasure this evening. However most are in the midst of other more fleshy pleasures. The steamed window kind of you get my drift.

Johnny: Baby I have a fun idea for tonight. Suzi: What is it hun?

Johnny: Let me give you a Mickey and we can see what date rape is like?

Suzi: Sounds fun. My friends always talk about their date rapes. I always felt left out you know. Thank you for thinking of me, Johnny.

Johnny: Anything for you, Suzi. You’re swell. Have a sip

Johnny passes her a sweaty cream soda.

He Was a Bright Boy

Today at 5:37 pm a young man set himself ablaze in the middle of the intersection of Fremont and 18th street. One witness said he was a bright boy. Full of light.

Nibbled nails on gaunt fingers cause her pause as the cashier hands over $1.73 in change.

The barking dogs in my dreams keep me up at night.

You wanna know what I did? You wanna know what I did man Man? I got my gun man and I put it in his fucking mouth man (laughs).

I shoved it right in and I told him man, I told him listen here mother fucker, you wanna keep your teeth? Then shut the fuck up man and calm down. He calmed down all right. Not calm enough to stop the perspiration from beading or still his nervous legs. Those long shanks were dancing.

You’re crazy for doing that shit dude Man fuck them. Greedy piglets need correction.

Sucking in a deep drag off his tru blues Paul’s tone calmed. His forceful exhale dances around the still air of the room, swirling in curly cues up to the rafters.

Crazy ain’t the half of it man. Needless to say that’s why I stopped going to church.

i can tell you’ve been sinning

You best not look Bach

I’m at the store Choppin

There’s smoke in the mirrors of his eyes she thought to herself as she stared at him through the sweaty window. He stood directly under the rain occluded street lamp across the street like a statue. A sallow fog enveiled the bulb of the lamp and faded out by the time it reached him.

Agony hangs around them like a thick morning fog. Their torment is palpable. Wishes bring only a pain known to the lonely. The beggars that fill the cobbles and alleyways speak tales of forgotten fortunes, empty bottles, lost adventures with sighs redolent of liquor and rot. These rags of men know ghosts more than they know the drink.

Their Constructed Savior

The dark afternoon sky was thick with a dirty suspension of sand and ash. Among leaden cast shadows, the pale await in a veil of ruination. Their monolith presiding over them, their dissolution. time abraded stone presents relief from the animus of wind. Their constructed savior. Blistering gusts wail along , a carriage for an infinite population of sand that abrades against their uncovered flesh.

Her Maimi Vices

Ext beach

We see a body face down, covered in sand and strands of seaweed. The tide washes against them. As we pan up slowly we are looking at a beautiful orange sherbet sunset. The colors are vivid and reflect in the waves and water. All that is audible is the crashing of waves.

Int kitchen

We see a girl licking a postage stamp. She slobbers on it more than necessary and sticks it to a postcard. There’s small writing filling the card but we can’t quite discern it. She flips it over and we see a vibrant beach sunset. It looks familiar. She stares at the photo on the back for a long moment. Tight on her eyes, there’s sadness welling up.

Int bathroom

She sits on the toilet relieving herself. Her pink underwear around her knees. Fluffy white slippers on her feet. Head in her hand in the form of exhaustion. Her bathroom is a complete mess. The pink flamingo shower curtain has seen better days and is barely hanging on the rod. We cut around her bathroom labors until she is made up and ready for her day.

Ext apt

She checks her doorknob to confirm it’s locked. It’s almost like an ocd impulse. She checks it a few more times

Chernobyl

You got that kind of Chernobyl beauty. Apocalyptic.

I Sold My First Script... at a Yard Sale

The first interview he would have in fact would be his last. He was not aware of this as he entered the travertine lobby. Dilapidated white sneakers stand out in a loafer sea like the viscid foamy white stuff that congeals in corners of parched lips. Constant thrums of fast paced talking. Hard to imagine only a few days ago he was sitting amongst cardboard boxes scribbled with prices in black marker; selling the contents of his existence -Extensionally speaking.

Next to the shoe box of change being used as a till, willfully obscured by a sort of trinket graveyard sat what looked to be a film script.

Ding. The elevator doors open and he steps into the vertical cattle car. An express ride to floor 23 was a wish he would not be granted, as the elevator pickups and drops at each floor.

“Wait, you’re telling me that you have a meeting scheduled with the garage sale kid?

“He should be here in a few minutes…

In The End Together

Their existence together as they once knew it was coming to an abrupt and definitive end but there was an err of freshness to the cauteric redolence of becoming light; this excited them and for once in what seemed like ages they smiled. The sick sheen of oblivion set their faces alight as they stared at inbound devastation.

Beware The Chewing Mind

There it is, that feeling when your stomach shivers, panging your insides with a cold only comparable to the hard inured soil of the grave. A constant mastication of sour memories, as if it was a sickly chunk of tallow that can never be swallowed. Unable to retch or even spit given the bondage of my own design that keeps it captive. Be careful of the chewing mind. Remember the teeth marks turn to scars and you should know this by looking at your flesh. The eating from the inside out is embattled by the biting I endure on the outside going in; a pie eating contest where the pie eats back. Gormandize in such a beautiful sense of the word. As I continue to set the forks upon the dining table I wonder if I will need a flower as a center piece?

It All Started With A Cough

It all started with a cough.

I watched them scramble over one another to embrace his feet. The fervor fixated eyes not blinking. Mouths gawked wide on contorting grimaces.

His arms outstretched in an offering of embrace he whispers be with me...

They tore themselves into slivers; long streaming strands of tendentious flesh.

Can you taste it? I be you do? Some take longer to notice, but I knew you were smarter than all the others. It’s a little bitter, huh? Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it too much now. You are already dying inside You wont feel the affects for a few more moments. Until then I would enjoy these last few breaths. The poison affects your lungs first. You will soon feel your breathing slow, and become increasingly difficult. Yeah, there it is.... I can hear you wheezing. Working much faster than I anticipated. I better talk faster then. Now, shortly after breathing slows, your mouth will become numb and soon to follow will be your fingers and toes. That means your body and poison are getting along great together. Now comes the fun stuff darling...

Trees stand silent and still. Their leaves lay in ruble beneath bare contorted branches that stretch from tree to tree down leafless rows. The leaden clouds cause the brilliant hues of the dying leaves to dull under its pallid light.

once i saw a man hang himself. i told him earlier that day a good way to commit suicide would be by hanging. he did not seem sad in the slightest. he made a few jokes about masturbating. none of them were funny but he still laughed and in return we laughed. i was standing on the usual corner with my usual friends by our usual old store. jimmy , zeffer, bobby and myself were drinkings ice cold sodas we just bought. the boy rode up on a brand new shiny cruiser. the chrome glinted in the hot june afternoon sun. none of us knew him. but he came right up to us like we were his long time friends.

Old Blackmill Woods

A cold wash of fear draped over young Dillan like a quilt as he peered out into the trees. What did he see? Did he see….a….thing? Dillan squinted his eyes for a sharper look. But by the time he was able to find the spot that he was previously gazing upon, the THING had vanished. His heart still pounding Dillan went on deeper into the Old Blackmill Woods. “You don bes’tay away from dem woods near ol’ Blackmill dil” his tired father slurred out before Dillan sprang to the front door. Around this time his old man has usually guzzled down three quarters of his first Jim beam bottle of the day. He would usually stop when his brain was no longer able to tell his arm to lift the bottle to his lips. There his old man would sit, sleeping for the rest of his night. Clutching the empty bottle of beam as if it was his childhood teddy.

Dil loved when his father was stone cold passed out. This was his time to shine. The moons slow waning light was not as bright as Dilllan’s gleaming thoughts roaming around insided his brain. Dil never perceived his glowing mind as a luxury nor did he believe it was a malady placed upon him from some unknown foe. He didn’t even believe it was wondrous ideas waiting to come out. No. He knew what this was. The slivers of moonlight that managed their way through the thicket of branches and finally spilling out on the jagged ground of the Old Blackmill Woods were ideal for his midnight wandering or should I say, pondering.

Earlier that night had been very peculiar for Dillan Tinkert.

She Was so Full of Life

After she died, her liver went to a professional wrestler from Florida, her kidneys to a pair of twins, and her heart went to a middle aged lady named Claire. She was so full of life.

Beat It

the deafening sound of dissatisfaction rang. misanthropic bells toll self-loathing chimes. a reverberation of ones bad decisions that echo between ears as consequence he will beat himself like a drum.

He’s Into Various Churches

He’s into various churches. On Sundays he would worship the religious girls. Something about the uncomfortable formality that turned him on. The lady next to him was wearing an obnoxious amount of jewelry. His titillation grew with the sermon and he realized that he should probably stop masturbating to the exorcist movie. What can you say the power of Christ compels you.

Too Short Wrestling

Sean attended a wrestling match when he was twelve years old. Featured that night was a bout between two little people. He was disappointed. The match was too short.

Bad Time for Angels

A feather clogged drain starts to back up filling the stained tub with a tepid, roseate liquid around her feet. Her hands are tacked with plumage and down as she reaches behind and tears out fistfuls of bloodied feathers. In violent repetition each handful is forced into her mouth. Cheeks, lips smeared with her crimson remnants. What once was brilliant white wings now hang in grotesque straps.

I am quite good and being a bad comedian.

She had a face full of lies. Wrinkles deepened by guilt. You can tell a smile hasn’t met her in years. Lips purse as they greet her cigarette, culling in smoke with an inverse sigh.

I.U.D.

A guy standing on the corner of a sleepy intersection under a yellowing streetlight wearing a trench coat.

A lady approaches.

He opens the left side of his coat revealing inside:

Nuva Rings

Diaphragms

Plan-B

Wire hanger

Whatcha lookin for?

(pause)

Flo?

He opens the right side of his coat

Tampons

maxi Pads

Diva Cup

Take your pick.

No Room for Gods

Cough. Cough. (deep breath) Cough.

She could only breathe for a split second between coughs. Sometimes long enough to drag in a deep breath of the so-called air. O2, Oxygen-air. Its not what it used to be. You can see it now...well not the air, but what’s in it. Compiled of ashen reminisce of the long destroyed cities. Not to mention the minute particles of people reduced to a sour calx that coats her lungs a little more with each inhalation. She can’t taste the sour anymore. Cough.

A hard slam to her chest. She lowers her quivering wrist. “fuck I cant believe...cough.... we have lasted so long” Her voice was more callus than her soot spatted complexion. Her words meant for herself, kept her knowing she was still alive, still a being. She had not seen another person nor scars of existence in longer than she could count. Almost as long as dust and death have painted the sky. She had only seen four people since the world turned to sand. Three of them long dead, just bones soon to be dust. The fourth was a self proclaimed messiah. She watched him choke to death. Not by means of foul doing, rather, he professed the ability to turn sand into water. He was eager in demonstrating. That was the last she or the world heard any speak of saviors.

No room for gods...in this world ... ...if you could even call it that anymore

Have you ever looked at the cracks in the ground and thought what’s trying to break out?