she slid out of that short skirt and removed the panties as well and hopped on the bed and took off her shirt and bra then assumed the lotus position and very calmly said, "You got like… a needle and some rubbing alcohol?" "Um, what for?" he asked She looked him in the eyes. "I want you to watch me pierce my nipples. I've some cute rings I want to see shining in 'em. So, you down for it?" He was silent for a long time. Just staring at her tits. "Um… I'm out of rubbing alcohol. Will some vodka do?" "It won't be nearly as good," she said, "but hell, let's give it a shot." His mind was already ablaze with images of her being his wife
the phone rang at 03:08 unknown number Well, the bleeding wound on his forehead prevented him from sleeping anyway He picked up "Yeah?" "Hey," a girl's voice said. "Are you the guy who has a thing for crazy girls fresh out of the psych ward?" "What?" "Am I speaking to the guy who's very much into dating sexy girls with mental issues that other guys refer to as red flags?" "Who is this?" he asked "Oh no, this is not about me. I just wanted to introduce you to my sister. I think she fits the bill quite perfectly with you. What do you say?" He sighed. "Tell her I'll call back once my current girlfriend breaks up with me. I hope she's patient. It'll take a good couple of hours. Bye." He hung up
the music makes my lungs quake there are people all around jumping up and down shouting singing howling into each other's ears the lights blaze from above and the sides and even from the floor the immense room feels like the surface of a star and its inhabitants dance and cheer in the flames Everyone is happy everyone's ecstatic jubilant wild high frenzied having the time of their life And I am amidst them all They are talking to me Expecting replies The party goes on and on and on God... I've never felt lonelier in my life.
A King David of Our Times – New poem featured in SPILLWORDS
New poem featured in the illustrious SPILLWORDS PRESS! TITLE: a king David of our times ( ⊃｡•́‿•̀｡)⊃ Give it a read HERE Thanks!
my favorite writer
"He started writing," she said, talking about her father. "He's an old man now. Had me when he was in his late forties. You'd think late forties would be enough to realize that a man is crazy, but well, not my mother I guess. Or perhaps it was the craziness that attracted her to him. I'll never know. He says that writing is something you can do until you drop dead, unlike sports where you can only be truly good when you're young, in your prime. Also, he's one of those artists who believe that one must suffer for art. I tried telling him that's just plain stupid, but despite all my efforts he still sprinkles razor blades on his bed when he goes to sleep. He moves at night of course and of course he gets plenty of cuts. All over his body. And every time he gets a cut he stands up, turns on the light, and sprays rubbing alcohol on the cut. He says it works 100% of the time. Instantly he gets inspired, grabs the muse by the throat, as he puts it. There's a laptop on his nightstand, ever turned on, and he immediately starts writing as the blood seeps out of the wound. When the inspiration wains he grabs the bottle of rubbing alcohol and sprays some more. There's no writing without pain, he says. And of course all his stories are about pain and suffering. He's even got one in which this old guy who never did anything worthwhile in his life finds himself paralyzed in his armchair from the waist down. How he can't do shit and just cries and begs death to take him already. But he doesn't really want to go. He knows that all his life has been lived in vain. He never made one soul happy as long as he lived. So he gets this idea that if only he can make one soul happy before departing forever he had not lived in vain. In part two of the story he starts cutting pieces of his own flesh, from the legs in which he's got no feeling, and throws them out the window for the mongrel dogs and street cats to feast on. Then he dies in peace, knowing that he'd made at least a few souls happy." "Did he really write that," I asked "Sure did," she said. "And many more. He doesn't care about publishing though. He just knows that the world will discover his art after he'll be gone. I guess he made his peace with this." "Shit," I said, "listen, could I read that story myself? Or any other of his?" "Like I said, he won't share his writings with an audience. Only postmortem, he says." Well, after that evening every time I met her I kept asking about her father. He was still alive and writing He also got diabetes from all the glasses of coca-cola mixed with six or seven spoonfuls of sugar he drank to replenish his blood, but that was all right, apparently it only made him write better now that he had more suffering in his life he also refuses to see or be seen by any doctors or psychiatrists Well, I don't want much from him, only to know that he's got a big fan in this world
like making a contract with a dumpster diving company
first came the 15 page letters They were typed in parts and written by hand in others the ink color would change and the font and the little doodles on the margins The only consistency in the whole project was the reader’s inability to understand 93% of it all They were threats, alright, but of what nature? Well, next came the envelopes filled with rusty and bloody razor blades pubic hairs bloody tissues bloody plastic gloves broken guitar strings clipped nails pictures of random people with their eyes crossed out by needle scratches “It’s not so bad if you think about it,” he said. “I get free stuff in the mail. Sure, most of it is junk, but every once in a while I get something good. Look, the other day I got this perfectly functioning pen. Heh, I might even start writing poetry again… I’m tellin’ you, man, breaking the heart of a psychotic girl is like making a contract with a dumpster diving company to deliver the junk to your mail. For free. Goddamn, I should really start writing poetry again. Now that I don’t have to go scout the dumpsters myself. I gotta do something with all the free time.”
making it big in a small world
other than weirded the fuck out she didn’t know how to feel about it so she read the words again SO GLAD TO SEE YOU ALIVE AND FINE, LOVE! ALWAYS KNEW MY DAUGHTER WILL MAKE IT BIG IN THIS SMALL WORLD. LOVE, DADDY The words were written with a black marker on a $100 bill that someone threw at her in the club while she was stripping on the pole Could’ve been a shitty prank but $100 was a bit too much to spend for laughs She tried to remember the faces of all the men who gathered around her and howled as she did her number but they were simply too many and too bland Later that night she asked the management to remove private lap dances from her list of services for a while and the request was denied Well, when you make it big in a small world you either carry the weight of fame on your shoulders or get crushed At least the money bought a good dinner for her little daughter and the two cats
no country for romantic men by Bogdan Dragos
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and the few survivors who couldn’t fight were lined up along with the civilians and shot or killed in ways to entertain the soldiers And dogs were trained to tear them to shreds and the ground became black with their soaked blood and over the next few days a carpet of butterflies gathered on top of it “It’s beautiful,” he said She didn’t pay attention. Was too busy removing golden teeth from a severed head she held in her lap. “Dammit, whoever made these implants did too good a job. I’ve to take ‘em with gums, alright. Look, my knife keeps slipping.” “Stab his eyes please,” he said “What? Why?” “Because he’s looking at us. I can’t stand it.” “Jeez, you’re such a pussy.” She quickly stabbed the blade into the head’s eyes one after the other. “Better?” “Whatever,” he said. “Just hurry up and pull those teeth.” “I’m trying…
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these days a lot of people call themselves empaths They claim to be able to feel what other people are feeling and suffer with them "I cheated on my boyfriend with his brother," some girl said, “and being the empath that I am I started crying along with him when he found out. It's hard being such an empath." And there was the guy who got into a bar brawl and knocked another guy's teeth out and held a hand to his own mouth and made pain noises I guess he was an empath too If you have a social media account and don't describe yourself as an empath people will think you're some kind of monster, a psychopath, they'll compare you with Hitler Yeah, it's a good reason not to use social media If you actually needed another
a sad burglar
father wasn’t very happy when he came home in the night his little girl, playing video games and enjoying snacks and having an occasional sip from mother’s wine and cider on the couch in the living room at 01:27 AM, could tell Father was very sad even though he came home with money and a car full of stuff He shied away from mother’s kiss and hug “What the fuck’s with you?” mother asked, seeing him like that. “You got caught or somethin’?” Father looked down at his shoes. “I’d rather get caught...” “What?” said mother “I said… Ah, forget it. I can’t do this shit anymore. This is no way to live life!” He reached into all the pockets of his pants and coat and fished out money, very crumpled bills, and threw them to the floor. “Look at this. Look at it and think. In six days it’s Christmas! And the children from the foster home I’ve burglarized are all going to find out they’ve been on Santa’s naughty list. Holy shit, I feel like… shit right now…” “Huh? Is that it? Guilt? Really? You feel guilty now? What’s this, a sign of getting old?” “If not then it should be,” he said. “The two of us grew up in a foster home just like that one, didn’t we?” “Yeah,” she said, “and we hated every second of it. So what? We didn’t get presents for Christmas. We were lucky if we got more food and an extra hour of TV, dammit. Kids today are too privileged. Fuck ‘em an’ let’s count this cash.” She went on her knees and started collecting the crumpled bills. He stepped away from her. “I need a break from this.” “Bullshit,” she said. “What you need, darling, is to first of all stop being a pussy, you’re embarrassing yourself in front of your daughter, and second you need a strong drink and a good fuck. I can take care of the last two, but the first one is up to you alone, okay? Oh, by the way, did you also steal a new tablet? I broke another one today.” “And a phone charger for me,” said their daughter from the couch. “I didn’t break it. Just can’t find it anywhere.” He sighed and took off his shoes and went into the bathroom to take a shower, unable to get those poor children off his mind. He hated himself “Shit,” he said. From the living room his wife and daughter started blasting really loud music with over the top, obnoxious and dirty lyrics “This is my life now,” he whispered against the water that flowed down from the top of his head. I was better off in the foster home. Sometimes it’s better to be hurt by others and struggle to stay alive than to know the only way you can stay alive is by hurting others. It’s times like these that make me think about what that nun said to me in the foster home when I learned to write. You’ve a knack for it, she said. I see a great future for you as a writer. Believe in yourself and keep at it. Shit… if I kept at it… I’d probably write a story about a sad burglar now instead of living it…