Tag Archives: Love

THE TORNADO THAT DESTROYED EVERYTHING AND MADE EVERYONE HATE HIM BUT THEN THEY DIDN’T: A STORY ABOUT TORNADOES AND FORGIVENESS BUT MOSTLY TORNADOES by Nick Mohoric

There once was a beautiful tornado named Michael. He was known throughout all the land as Michael the Mangler after his penchant for mangling the crap out of a ton of dudes’ and dudettes’ faces when tearing across the open plains. This wasn’t his fault; in fact, Michael was the sweetest tornado one could ever know and he only wished to bring joy to all those he met along his journeys. Unluckily for him, and those he mangled, his crazy strong winds were known to rip the nails out of houses and throw them, along with any other heavy or razor-like objects, toward the quivering crowds of onlookers.

“Watch out below!” he would yell as he flung a house on top of some ladies sunbathing topless for to get as much tan on their boobs as possible. They never heard his warnings, never heard his sweet nothings, they would just hear the sound of his rushing winds swirling around them.

As a Category 1 tornado he fell in love with a young girl in a neighboring town named Rose. She was not like other girls her age. Her parents sheltered her and as a result her life was in her books. Michael was not used to this type of girl; all he knew were the girls that were outside chasing the boys while trying to impress them by watching them play sports, flipping their hair in the sun in hopes of catching themselves in that perfect light. He only saw Rose as she went from her home to school. He watched the way her skirt moved at the slightest updraft, the way her hair seemingly floated behind her, the slight upturn of her lips as she read her book while walking down the sidewalk, the inevitable way her body intertwined with some random passerby when she didn’t see them coming.

She was perfection.

Michael finally worked up the courage to speak to her at her home shortly after she arrived from school. There would be no one else there in case he were to embarrass himself. The second he got near her house he ripped the door off the hinges; his nerves were getting the better of him. Rose rushed into the room to see what was with all the commotion and was immediately sucked through the hole the door used to fill, straight through Michael’s whirling self, and slammed directly into a tree.

She lay there inert. Michael had killed his first love before he could even introduce himself.

This began a vicious cycle for our poor tornado. He flew into a downward spiral of depression (what people don’t realize is that tornadoes normally spin in an upward spiral of happiness). The realization that he could never have what he wanted most, a love in his life, only added to the winds raging within. With each passing day his wind speeds rose until he was a Category 5 ,wandering the city in a fury.

Working his way toward the center of town, he watched the people run in horror. They couldn’t escape him, though; he was too fast as he pelted them with rocks, sticks, tires, hot dog carts, kittens, cats, beer bottles, bums, window shutters, car glass, newspapers balled up really fucking tight and soaked with some water and maybe pee (he couldn’t tell), apples, dirt clods, sex toys, regular toys, dirty clothes, farts, and ultimately their own limbs as he cried “Stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself.”

In his heart he only wanted their love, but he had come to believe he was only capable of pain so he figured he would play the part. The self hatred and doubt that he grappled with consumed him as he stumbled from town to town. This blind rage that drove him was a blessing and a curse: the air was filled with screams of terror because of it, but it ultimately made sure that he wasn’t aware of his surroundings and on one fine day Michael stumbled upon a McDonald’s purely by chance. After ripping the roof off he was suddenly filled with thousands of freshly cooked hamburgers, fries, and shakes that were so awesomely packaged that the shake did not get sucked out of the cup. With this knowledge he probably would have chucked that food at all the people around but instead he continued on his rampage, finally tearing the walls and roof off of a nearby orphanage. This added debris forced the food to fly directly into the open mouths of all the starving orphans.

Michael was a hero! The town rejoiced!

But then they realized all the people he’d murdered and the millions of dollars of damage he’d caused and hated him again.

NICK MOHORIC makes a living organizing sex tips for women’s magazines. He lives in Brooklyn with his cat, Flapjack, and can be heard imbibing copious beers on the Literally Drunk podcast. Almost never, he reminds people to “readmyfrigg.in/blag“.

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WRITER’S BLOCK by Jack Bristow

Dallas Grady, thirty-eight, good looking in spite of a life of hard drinking, pill eating, and two divorces, lay on the motel room bed, cigarette in right hand, fumbling through The Yellow Pages with the other. He was working on his magnum opus, his novel, his written testament to counter the notion that his life had been a waste.

He had told the voice on the other end to bring him over a date with blonde hair and brown eyes—she had to have brown eyes, he instructed, more than once. The voice on the other end had been very accommodating. Dallas swore the man was from the east coast originally—something about the voice. He hung up the phone after giving directions to the room and took a swig from the Southern Comfort bottle, walked over to the typewriter and unwound.

The story was only twenty-five pages so far. It was about a war hero whose wife kicked him out after him having returned home from the war. The woman had blamed the man’s drinking on their divorce but the man had known better. His father had always told him, “Dall. You can’t change the past—so don’t you ever try.” The woman he had married—the naive, brown-eyed cheerleader from Detroit—no longer existed when he returned home from Iraq. In her place was this well-read and independent woman, who had gone to too many political rallies, anti-war, and met a lot of people. A lot of men.

Dallas cringed at the thought. Another veteran. Another goddamn veteran of the same goddamn war who had thrown all his decorations over the fence and onto the White House lawn. And Debbie thought that was just great. Wonderful.

And when he got home she’d wanted him to do the same thing. Bullshit. For what? For who? He had earned his medals—they were the only thank-you the man would probably ever receive for putting his life on the line. Why get rid of them—why throw them out on some silly, unfounded whim?

“Shit.” He yanked page thirty-six from out of the Selectric, red-faced huffing and puffing. That was the thing about us Irish, Dallas had thought miserably. We can’t ever hide anything.

He has having tremendous difficulty merging reality with art. But, goddamn it, he would finish the novel. He just needed some human contact. Some intimacy.

He smirked as he looked into the mirrored wall. His face was so different. No longer rosey and filled with life. Sallow. Rings under his pale grey eyes so dark it had almost looked like he was wearing mascara.

The man in the story had made a lot of friends. Chuck McAnderson. Sergeant Darren Thomas and Curtis de Wade. He had wanted to call them, to really tell another human being something but they, too, were in the past. The brave men he had served with no longer existed. Other men bearing those names were with their families now….

He’d hoped to God they’d at least had families who would miss them, that would be able to tell they weren’t the same people they’d left as. That was the thing about war—not wars, because all wars were the same—but war would keep you more in the past than anything.

He had been gone only two years. One tour. But it had seemed like a lifetime.

Knock knock knock on the door. Dallas hobbled off the chair and unlatched the four-chain locks and deadbolt. A grinning man stood in the doorway with a blonde dressed in cheap ivory colored spandex and fake fur. He had recognized the man’s voice from the telephone.

“Hi there. I am Clayton and this is Luicna. Your date.” And then he had told Dallas the rules. “You can do anything with her you like. I don’t care. She don’t care, neither. Back-door. Missionary. Go downtown. It don’t matter. Just no hitting, no punching. Absolutely no cutting and/or strangulation.”

Dallas nodded solmenly, as if this fine, upstanding gentleman were her father, and Dallas some acne-faced geek escorting her to the prom.

“Another thing. And this is mandantory,” the pimp explained. “I’ll be waiting out here for forty-minutes, but I’ll need some collateral first—something to know who you are, just in case you breach our agreement.”

“No problem.” Dallas handed the man his driver’s license. Expired. The face inside it had seemed a little more colorful and vibrant. But this man standing in front of him was Dallas Grady. There was no mistaking that.

***

Dallas looked into those eyes as he went to work on her. Brown. His body kept going up and down coolly, confidently until there was that unmistakable intense feeling, and then it was all over with.

Brother, he thought. Twenty-nine years old and you still make it like you were seventeen.

Luicna looked at her Mickey Mouse wristwatch— the only thing she was wearing. “That was only twenty minutes. You still have another twenty. You paid for it. Just wait and regroup. Most guys your age, it only takes ‘em what? Five, ten minutes? That’ll give us another ten minutes.”

Dallas grinned evilly. A considerate whore. Now he had seen it all. But he knew when she had grabbed his tricep consideration had had nothing to do with it. She had liked him. And only one of them had gotten their cookies.

“No thanks. Sweetheart. Busy night.”

He saw a mild sadness in the whore’s face. This had made him feel important. Wanted.

“Don’t worry, precious. We’ll have other dates.” He pinched her cheek.

***

At the Selectric now, pounding the keys furiously. His fingers barely able to keep pace with his mind. This was the way to do it—the only way you could write about Debbie without going crazy.

JACK BRISTOW has written for several zines, including Inwood Indiana, The New Flesh, Hobopancakes, and Indigio Rising.

TRANSFERENCE DISPLACEMENT by Khakjaan Wessington

Your favorite lover’s conflicted, unfaithful;
The pupils deny it, the nighttime denies it,
Even the cat at the window denies it.
Inside, she purrs with the rhythm of engines;
While outside a vehicle sputters then ceases
To cough, while you climb from the warmth of the covers
Outside the treaty of bed to the kitchen:
Water by starlight and dishes in streetlight.
The river still flows from the faucet to toilet—
Its passage is medium, you are the message.
Alternate currents from sockets to ripples
Under the blankets—each passes the middle,
As liquid transmitted from organ to organ.
The body’s appendage: an orgasm fleeing
Death—that true faithful—the source of all echoes.
Lost in the maze of its shadows, the meanings
Obscured, you see death in your lover
And death in the rain out the window and everything
Passes from source; destination uncertain,
Passing regardless inside you, outside you.

KHAKJAAN WESSINGTON 1) Writes the Daily News Poem at http://toylit.blogspot.com, 2) Operates the deadliest literary fight club: http://combatwords.blogspot.com, 3) Was contributing writer for eXile.ru, 4) Had a poem published at thenervousbreakdown in August of this year, 5) Has just published the Toylit Q1/Q2 2010 print edition.

THE ALIEN by Thom Young

There’s this alien in my room. The other night we were playing cards. “You son of a bitch, try that shit again and I’ll kill your ass.” The alien didn’t like cheaters much less me as a roommate. I came home one day and she was on the couch. I was startled at first, but she warmed up to me. It seemed strange the alien didn’t look like you see in movies. The alien looked human. Huge aliens tits and tight alien pussy. The first few days were great. We talked about her planet. She lived on Venus. It was hot as fuck she said. I told her about my day. “I usually get up about six and make coffee. Put on my tie and go to work. I sit at my desk and stare at a computer.” The alien laughed. “You get paid for that shit? You’d be unemployed on Venus.” I guess the alien had a point. My job was stupid. The alien ate me out of house and home. “Bring some more of those cheese things.” “You mean Cheetos?” “I don’t give a fuck what they are, just get them.”

I barely had time for myself. Not that I did much. I usually just ate a TV dinner and watched Johnny Carson. Then I jacked off and went to bed. The alien liked to stay up all night. She watched sappy romantic comedies. The damn television stayed on. “Listen, I gotta go to work. Do you mind turning that down?” “Shut the fuck up Larry. Go get me some more cheese things and beer. Don’t buy the cheap shit either.”

The next few weeks were hell. I didn’t get a wink of sleep. I had to have a talk with the alien. “Listen, we need to talk.” The alien laughed and wiped cheese dust on the sofa. “You want to talk now? You son of a bitch.” “Yes.”

The alien and I sat down one night after her movie. “Look, you’re great and all but I just need break.” “A break?” The alien laughed and slammed a beer. “If you don’t shut the fuck up Larry, I’ll murder your ass.” I saw no point in reasoning with her. The alien had news for me though. “You know that night you got drunk with your buddies?” “I don’t remember.” The alien grabbed her stomach. “Now I’m carrying your baby.” “What?” “You don’t recall fucking the shit out of my pussy?” “No.” “You were drunk as shit and stuck it in. Now we got a baby.”

“Larry, go get me more Cheetos and dill pickles. I got a craving. You did this to me.” I left and got in my car. It was a strange night. The clouds hung low. A fog that surrounded everything.

I pulled the Ford over. I lit a cigarette and stared out the window.

THOM YOUNG is a writer from Texas. His work has been in 3am magazine, Word Riot, Thieves Jargon, The Legendary, and other sundry places. He enjoys fine tobacco and women.

BASEBALL by Gary Beck

Love,
da season’s come.
(Ya hear me hon?)
The season’s come.
Time to oil the old mitt,
stretch the arm
and think about the girls
who watch me play.

GARY BECK has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn’t earn a living in the theater. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His chapbook Remembrance was published by Origami Condom Press, The Conquest of Somalia was published by Cervena Barva Press, The Dance of Hate was published by Calliope Nerve Media and Mutilated Girls is being published by Bedouin Press. A collection of his poetry Days of Destruction was published by Skive Press. Another collection ‘Expectations’ was published by Rogue Scholars Press. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway and toured colleges and outdoor performance venues. His poetry has appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. He currently lives in New York City.

THE COUPLE IN THE GROVE by Changming Yuan

she is a willow
gorgeous and graceful
his whispers are the breeze
gentle and generous
blowing through her branches
slim and summer-glazed
constantly making her tremble
like a chuckling tree

CHANGMING YUAN authored several books before emigrating from China and currently teaches writing in Vancouver. Yuan’s poetry appears in Barrow Street, Best Canadian Poetry, Exquisite Corpse, London Magazine and over 200 other literary publications worldwide. His collection (Chansons of a Chinaman) and monograph (Politics and Poetics) both released recently, Yuan has twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

JEDEN POŠETILÝ POVÍDKA! by M.J. Nicholls

Warm towels a-comin’.

Simon awoke one morning to discover he was a homosexual. It couldn’t have come at a more inconvenient time. He said the word to himself in the mirror: hoe-moe-sex-you-all. What did it mean? It meant he preferred penis to pudendum. What else? Nothing else.

Problem: He had taken a part-time post at Nuts Magazine writing gratuitous sleaze for builders and bozos. How could he poeticise the female form with conviction? Answer: The readership were illiterate and he could fake his way through using the words pwoar and tittifarious.

That problem was solved. What was more distressing was the man dressed as a four-bedroom Georgian terraced cottage rapping on his door. What did he want at this time of the morning? He was a double-glazing salesman! Skilled at the job thanks to his fifteen double-glazed windows – real-time examples of the power of padded glass.

“I trust you’ll be wanting safety and protection for your family?” he asked. Christ he was smug! All Simon wanted was a shave, a slice of toast and penetrative anal sex with a Russian builder.

“Not really.”

“Oh, so I suppose you want your family to get raped and killed to death?”

“No.”

“Choose from a range of panes! Look at our catalogue!”

“But they’re all the same!”

“Yes. You’d better get in there QUICK!”

The man was a nuisance, plus he was blocking out the sunlight with his four-bedroom Georgian terraced cottage outfit. So Simon bought the glass, even though he had bought triple-glazing from a Viennese pied-à-terre a month ago, quadruple-glazing from a Romanian bordello two months ago, and a subscription to Glazed Windows Monthly from a priest wearing a Moroccan village on his head seven hours ago.

Simon logged onto the interknot and checked the BNP-4-Baldies Forum. Four people had replied to his post on rounding up headlice and getting them into decent schools, including a man ranting on his hatred of bloody foreign headlice, coming to Britain and stealing British scalp-space! Simon was late for work, so dashed out the door without commenting.

  • Towels. The impending swarm of towels.

    During the commute (he hovered to work on his discarded sense of gallantry) he collided with a man dressed as a Victorian mansion with adjoining swimming pool and tennis court.

    “Oh, so sorry!” Simon said. The man had a stunning bathroom. And look at that kitchen! Such craftsmanship!

    “No problem. Where you from?”

    “Over there.”

    “Say, what do you make of this immigrant headlice invasion? Don’t our children have the right to British lice?”

    “Yes. I love you.”

    The laws of socially acceptable conversation had never bothered Simon before and the man dressed as a Victorian mansion with adjoining swimming pool and tennis court found this candour arousing. He invited Simon inside and directed him towards his penis (it was hidden behind the immersion heater in the fourth bedroom – not exactly conducive to a trouble-free homosexual intercourse debut!) Ouch, hiss, spuuuuurt!

    After this disappointing exchange, Simon arrived late for work. His role at the Headlice Distribution Centre was to make sure each British headlouse was in work and to reduce the queues of headlice at the dole scalps. Since immigrant headlice had been granted the right to work, thousands of infirm or inexperienced headlice had been laid off and replaced with skilled workers from abroad, willing to work for a reduced salary.

    Simon found this unfair – after all, British headlice were renowned for their ability to nibble through dried skin and burrow into the scalp until it bled – but immigrants had the right to work too.

    He didn’t know. It was a complex moral cake. He was more preoccupied with seeing the handsome Victorian mansion again. Although the sex was weak (the mansion ejaculated soot of all things!), he felt secure with his thighs wrapped around that immersion heater. The snugness of warm fibreglass insulation upon his prickling skin, the gentle hum as the heat spread from his headlice to his pubic nits. It was quite close to bliss.

  • THE TOWELS ARE HERE!

    Citizens of the UK had been instructed to ignore the subliminal Towel Propaganda being broadcast on QVC over the last two months. However, it was trickier to ignore the propaganda when five Nylon Bathtowels, hovering in from the North Sea, were smothering the country in a warm shroud of soft fibres. Tall buildings prevented the towels from suffocating people, and sun blockage was solved by burning a hole through the fabric with laser thingies:

    The invasion put things in perspective for Simon: his arms, his nipples, his toenails – these were the things that mattered the most. Likewise, his latest fling with the Victorian mansion with adjoining swimming pool and tennis court. Surely, this was more important than the UK being coated in a series of snug Nylon Bathtowels, or the subsequent state of perpetual darkness visited upon the landscape? Of course it was! He went home.

    Unfortunately, as he dashed for the door, five homeless Czech headlice invaded his scalp and began feasting on his dandruff. These Czech lice really knew how to monopolise a scalp, and Simon was itching non-stop on the hoverway. The man opposite him giggled twice (though this amusement might have been caused by the Moroccan stand-up comedy tape he was listening to – though that was hardly likely!) The lice leapt from his scalp and onto his legs.

    (we demand attention and respect),” they chorused.

    “What? Sorry, could you speak up, please?”

    (of course we can’t, we’re lice).

    “Oh, look… use this microphone,” Simon said, retrieving the lucky microphone he kept in his pants in case someone wanted to interview his penis (well, stranger things had happened.)

    “WE DEMAND RESPECT!”

    “That’s too loud. About my level.”

    “Sorry. How’s this?”

    “Perfect. You were saying?”

    “Yes, we erm… demand respect. Erm… you’ve stolen our momentum somewhat. Well, the point is – we’re from the Czech Republic and yes – we speak perfect English! Could you speak perfect Czech if you went to live in the Czech Republic, hmm?”

    “Pravděpodobně!”

    “Listen, Englishman – we want to live on your scalp. We’ve prepared a diagram mapping out the areas we demand on your head. If you reach into my pocket, you’ll find it. Be careful not to kill me.”

    Simon micro-tweezed the diagram from the Czech headlouse and used his eyes to view it:

    “It’s very comprehensive,” Simon remarked. The lice were unamused (as most lice often are).

    “Englishman, I would save the frivolities for your fellow humans. We are short on time here, you understand, and are lacking vital nourishment after weeks spent living on the over-infested favela scalps of Czech dissidents.”

    “Hmm… are you going to be a nuisance? ‘Cause I’ve started seeing this really great Victorian mansion with adjoining swimming pool and tennis court and I don’t want to blow things with him. Just keep a low profile, OK?”

    “We will go about our business as lice in the professional manner to which we are accustomed.”

    “Oh, fine! Christ, you try compromising with these lice but they’re so snooty.”

    “We heard that!”

    That evening Simon invited the Victorian mansion over for a boiler check (slang for penetrative homosexual intercourse!) As he rutted with the mansion’s (or Trevor’s) boiler, this feeling of closeness was confirmed, although Trevor felt distant from his lover – after all, his arms were at opposite sides of the house, and he wanted to hold Simon!

    A suggestion was posited by the lice that Trevor remove his Victorian mansion suit, but this was implausible, as removal of the suit required a complex medical procedure, and Trevor wasn’t prepared to sacrifice his career for Simon quite yet.

    In the attic, a blizzard of woodlice had arrived from Naples (of the migrating Neapolitan cabinet-munching genus Fanoplura) to nibble through the antique show furniture up there. During their intercourse, Trevor’s left elbow had nudged open the attic door and let the lice loose throughout the rest of the house. This meant Simon’s scalp was crawling with the overproductive buggers when he left Trevor’s penis for the night (that beauteous rod!)

    The Czech lice had constructed a laser thingie atop his scalp and began blasting the invading lice from his paltry hairs. This was unfortunate for Simon, as the laser was quite powerful, and blew bits of his scalp off along with the lice – exposing his brain inside. Seizing the moment, the Czech lice crawled into Simon’s brain and began reprogramming his mind:

    Function Set To Changed To
    Thought Constant Concerned With the Survival of Czech Lice Only
    Desire Variable To Prolong the Lives of Czech Lice
    Expression Unlimited Restricted to the Wellbeing of Czech Lice

    What a horrible damper this put on Simon’s relationship! Being reduced to a servile drone operated by a Czech louse only interested in the wellbeing of his fellow lice confréres was not the ideal Thursday night for Simon. Luckily (though also unluckily), having parts of his head blown off meant Simon died within a matter of hours. The Czech lice were evicted from their home, and Trevor was evicted from his sexdog.

    Trevor had never experienced a lover dying inside him before, and felt somewhat Byronic – a tragic hero from a Romantic ode-to-doom. It wasn’t too upsetting for him, as Simon had basically been an anonymous fellator, and he’d had plenty of those in his time. If his head weren’t confined to the chimney, Trevor might have stood a better chance in relationships. C’est la vie!

    The lice left the mansion and joined the diaspora. Every headlouse in the country was heading for the Nylon Bathtowels and feeding off the fibres. Gradually, the towels would wear away, clearing the sky again for the citizens of the glorious UK nation, and thus freeing up British scalps for British headlice. However, no British louse wanted to live on a scalp anymore – the towels were much cosier. Soft, nutritious, a great community, and they got to lord it over the humans!

  • Hah!

    As the weeks rolled on (as weeks are inclined to do) Trevor had to vacate himself due to subsidence. He was back in his normal (and less spectacular) body, selling samosas door-to-door. He attended Simon’s funeral, but only to sneak a peak at the corpse, which never happened, since the head had been nibbled away by the lice, and Simon’s parents weren’t overly generous on letting folks having a peep at the mess. (There was substantial demand for it – over fifty people requested to see Simon’s nibbled pate!)

    Luckily, the pallbearers dropped the casket en route to the graveyard, exposing the mushed brain area to the entire congregation. Trevor wished he hadn’t seen it. The mushy red rigor-mortis bulge atop the forehead, with that left eye lolling from its socket, was not a desirable sight for a Thursday morning. No sir-ee. That was most bilious!

    He left the church nauseous, skipped the burial, and went off to purchase a semi-skimmed chocolate milk drink. The burble of disgust settled like an agoraphobic wasp in his gut: buzz-blurgh, buzz-bluuuuurgh!

    M.J. NICHOLLS is a callow manboy clacking out experimental, sometimes amusing, but otherwise awkward fiction in Edinburgh, Scotland. He is currently undergoing creative irrigation. His works have been published in Gold Dust Magazine, the Delinquent (UK) and Piker Press and New Paradigm (US).