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Flash Fiction Friday: Seeking Approval at the End of the World

by: John Wayne Comunale
Kyle shut the window, closed the drapes, and made his decision. The ratings had been shit for years, despite it being the longest running show in history. He was the President of Television, and tough decisions like this were his responsibility. He was going to have to cancel Outside.

Kyle crossed to a large switch on the wall and slammed it down from its current setting of ‘Live’ to its new setting of ‘Canceled.’ The sound of the show’s death decayed into silence as he strolled over to the coatrack by his office door and removed a black, hooded robe that slipped easily over his presidential three-piece suit.

Stitched in crimson on the left side of the robe was a twenty-one-point star with an eagle-winged spider at the center of it. Now that he’d canceled Outside, which was the final thing his brothers needed done to fulfill the ‘prophecy,’ he would be off probation and made a full-fledged member. No longer would he be called nerd-linger, douche-sack, cock-lick, or any of the many names they called him by. Now he would be known as Kyle.

He pressed a button on the wall that opened a door to a dark room where the only light came from a much larger version of the star symbol glowing red up from the floor. The intensity of the light rose sharply as a robot rocking horse with the head of Abraham Lincoln slid from the darkness to the center of the room.

“Did you do it douche-sack?” screamed Abe.

“I told you I’d do it, didn’t I? And it’s Kyle now…right?”

“Don’t bullshit us, nerd-linger!” yelled another robed individual stepping into the light. It was Dave, the shape-shifting alien who’d been every President of the United States since he came down, chopped Lincoln’s head off, and grafted it onto a robot rocking horse.

“I really did it, guys,” said Kyle again, smiling wide. “Now the prophecy can be fulfilled, or whatever.”

“He’s telling the truth,” came another voice from the shadows. A man stepped into the light and lowered his hood to reveal a scaly, reptilian head.

“Thank you Mr. Hubbard,” said Kyle. “See, I told you guys. So, am I off probation or what?”

“Fiiiiine,” groaned Lincoln. “If LRH says you did it, I guess that’s good enough for me. Enter the star.”


“Shut up and enter the goddamn star,” yelled Dave.

He stepped into the star and it glowed brightly as Lincoln rocked off, leaving Kyle in the center alone. He felt the heat in his feet first, but it quickly crawled up the length of his body, causing the hair on his arms to go limp and start to singe.

“Uh, hey, guys,” he said nervously through cracking lips. “Do you think we could turn the star down a little? It’s a little hot and…”

Dave stepped to the edge of the star, raised his hands, and began chanting. Lincoln and Hubbard joined him, and as the chanting became louder, the heat became more intense. Tiny flames danced along the edges of the star, and Kyle gasped trying to high-step his way out of the flames, but his hooded brethren would not let him leave the circle.

“Hey, what gives, guys? This is really starting to hurt!”

“Burning alive is supposed to hurt, dingus,” said Dave, laughing.

“What?” The flames crept quickly up Kyle’s robe. “You guys said that canceling Outside was the last thing you needed to fulfill the prophecy, and I did it!”

“Yeah, well, we lied,” said Lincoln.

“The actual last thing we need to do is sacrifice your nerdy, annoying ass,” called Dave through the rising flames.

The flames jumped to the ceiling for a moment before being sucked back down into the star, and Kyle was gone.

“We did it!” cried Dave.

“Wait,” said L. Ron Hubbard, raising his scaly hand to silence the group. “Something’s not right.”

He walked to the window and pulled the curtains aside, revealing nothing but blackness. A second later, there was a flicker and some static before Outside appeared through the window right before their eyes.

“What the hell?” shouted Lincoln.

“That little shitty nerd lied to us!” yelled Dave.

“No, I’m afraid not, gentlemen,” said Hubbard. “Kyle did indeed cancel Outside just as he said.”

“Then what’s all that out there?”

“Reruns,” said Hubbard flatly. “I’m afraid Outside has been put into syndication.”


John Wayne Comunale lives in the land of purple drank known as Houston, Texas. He is a writer for the comedic collective, MicroSatan, and contributes creative non-fiction for the theatrical art group, BooTown. When he’s not doing that, he tours with the punk rock disaster: johnwayneisdead. He is the author of The Porn Star Retirement Plan, Charge Land, and Aunt Poster as well as writer/illustrator of the comic-zine: The Afterlife Adventures of johnwayneisdead. John Wayne is an American actor who died in 1979.


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Flash Fiction Friday: Porcqupyne

by: Raf De Bie

Last week, I asked Cynthia to marry me. Today, the mailman hands me her reply: an empty piece of paper and a plastic bag stuffed with vowels, consonants, and punctuation marks. The mailman pats me on the back. “Sorry fella, they must have fallen off. It happens sometimes.” I drop to my knees, hands in the bag, then in my hair. How am I supposed to make sense of this? As the mailman walks away I find a Y, an E, and an S. I press them against each other and make kissy noises.

In the town’s Scrabble club, I get surrounded like I’m a blank tile. I don’t even have to ask the members to help me out; they just yank the bag out of my hands. Soon they present me a letter that doesn’t excel content-wise, but the word value is off the charts. Cynthia feels like I don’t bake her enough flapjacks. She calls me a porcqupyne. The plastic bag has only five characters left. “You’re welcome,” the Scrabble club members say as they retreat into a corner of the room, where they light up cigars and unfold a game board.

I find a bar where I tell a drunk clown about my love issues. After about an hour, he asks me where Cynthia lives. I tell him, “Way too far.” He says, “Way too far for what? For true love?” He orders another round of rum and cokes, and when the bartender replies that I should buy the clown a round for once instead of complaining about this Cynthia girl all the time, the clown headbutts him. Then he puts his hand on my shoulder, looks me deep in the eyes, and says, “That man has never been in love before. I will help you.” An hour later I’m riding a mini-tricycle on a dirt road, my eyes on the enormous moon on the horizon. I try to see myself in the shadows of the dark craters, on one knee in front of Cynthia as I offer her a ring. Cynthia holds her hands in front of her face and shouts, “I do! I do! I DO I DO I DO!”

I. En route, people throw me sausages and booze, and I ride ride ride two miles an hour, weeks on end. I take the boat, a train, get lost in three different states, and find my way each time again. I take a turn, work myself through the gravel on the long driveway, am unable to stop, and with a bang, I come to a standstill against Cynthia’s front door. I drop to the doorstep unconscious. As I wake up, I’m sitting in a police car right next to the clown, who is very calmly explaining to two officers it’s about time the bartender gets a taste of true love, so this all could have been avoided and it was all a dream.

II. En route, people throw me sausages and booze, and I ride ride ride two miles an hour, months on end. I take the boat, a train, get lost in three different states, and find my way each time again. I take a turn, work myself through the gravel on the long driveway, am unable to stop, and with a bang, I come to a standstill against Cynthia’s front door. I drop to the doorstep unconscious. As I wake up, Cynthia is standing right in front of me, an Elvis suit tightly hugging her slim waist, azure sunglasses on her perky nose, and pink lipstick on her bubblegum-blowing lips.

==> I choose for the dream.

=> For the confrontation.

> For II.

“Yes or no?” I ask.
“No. I already told you in the letter. My manager wrote down twelve pages just because we felt so sorry for you.”
“But I want to marry you.”
“Look, I’m a singer. A pop star. And you? What do you do? What are you?”
“A dreamer, a dreamer!” I shout, “That’s good too.”
“Not good enough.”
Cynthia slams the door shut.
I’m all alone again.

I ride to the coastline, where I rent a glassblower. He blows a gigantic bottle for me. I sit down in the bottle and have the entire Scrabble club push me into the sea. They hand me a quincunx (26 points) as a present for the voyage. Soon I’m drifting through the surf into the salty ocean.

The island where I wash ashore is inhabited by porcqupynes. They eat the few characters that are still in my pockets and soon learn how to speak. I bake them flapjacks. I have discussion panels with them, and soon I forget Cynthia. After a couple of months, I organize a dating show, matching two porcqupynes every full moon. New couples get to spend a night inside my glass bottle. During those nights, I take long walks along the beach, where I think about things that I will have forgotten about the next day. I am almost happy.


Raf De Bie lives and writes in Belgium. He graduated from the Antwerp Writers’ Academy in 2015 and is a former editor of the literary magazine Kluger Hans. His most recent publication in English, before this one, was in the European bizarro anthology This Is Not An AnthologyYou can find him on Twitter.


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Flash Fiction Friday: An Obscenely Pointless Story About Courtney Love

by: Bob Durant

Courtney Love tried to suck me off once. No joke. Five years ago, backstage at a Matchbox 20 concert, behind the speaker cases behind the sound booth. She dropped to her knees right there, started grabbing for my fun zone. She was sober, and it was weird.

I know she was sober because I’ve been around way too many junkies and coke heads and speed freaks and ketamine cats to know what it’s like to be around people who do things only because of their addictions. Courtney wasn’t whacked out of her mind, and she certainly wasn’t doing it for money; she had enough of that for a couple lifetimes. She was in it to win it. Nothing but the lust and love and thrill. That’s it.

I didn’t want her to do it, because: Courtney Love. If you ever thought she looked horrible when she was strung out and interrupting Kurt Loder on live TV, you haven’t seen her on her knees clutching an AA token in one hand and trying to unzip your pants with the other. And all that plastic surgery, the makeup, everything. This was Frances Bean’s mother, for fucks sake.

It was so hard, and I don’t mean me. I mean the thought of getting aroused by some wannabe punk rock Mary Magdalene was everything less than enticing. So instead of thinking of baseball to make me last longer, I focused on anything that would make me finish as quick as I could.

Scarlett Johansson. Christina Hendricks. Blake Lively. Scarlett Johansson and Christina Hendricks making out and double penetrating Blake Lively with strapons while my 9th grade history teacher watched and jerked off and slapped Blake across the face with a larger strapon. Sometimes you have to go full throttle in order to get the job done.

But it didn’t work – nothing would. Not even the steady, rhythmic motion of her mouth bobbing back and forth. I didn’t grunt, didn’t moan. Couldn’t, wouldn’t.

“I’m not giving up.” Courtney said during a momentary pause. I protested, tried to push her away, but two Samoan bodyguards prevented me from touching her. Daddy always told me, “Son, whatever you do in life, don’t ever piss of a Samoan. A Samoan is what happens when God duct tapes three regular sized men together and makes each of ’em meaner than a hornet’s nest sprinkled with PCP.” Despite his casual racism, my father’s advice was usually sound.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked. No sense in hiding my irritation. If she hadn’t figured out by now I wasn’t interested, then nothing I was going to say or do would make a difference. I was limper than a Chinese noodle; that should have made it clear enough.

“Because,” she said, wiping her lips thoughtfully. “Because not everything needs to make sense. Sometimes things happen for no reason, no purpose. There is a profound beauty in chaos, randomness. We dress our lives up with distractions to hide from the pointlessness of existence. I have money, I have fame. What else is there to strive for? Sucking you off is my distraction. You understand?”

I said I didn’t and asked her point blank to stop, but she went right back to work with her mouth and hands. It was no use. I had to endure.

The concert ended, but she continued. Rob Thomas and special guest star Carlos Santana walked by and chuckled at me. Courtney fondled the sack. The road crew broke down the stage. I looked to all of them for help, but each one avoided eye contact. Courtney worked the shaft. I remained soft. I begged her to stop. She refused. I cried.

That was five years ago. We’re still here, backstage. I’ve seen Matchbox 20 five times since then, and it took me until the third to remember that I never cared for them in the first place. Many other concerts have come and gone in that time: Huey Lewis and the News, The Johnny Winter’s Band, Avril Lavigne. Several tributes to bands that you wouldn’t think were popular enough to warrant a tribute, but hey, here we are. More Laser Zeppelin Shows than is probably necessary. A local Boy Scout Jamboree. None of them acknowledged us.

Courtney is still on her knees, sucking at the licorice whip remnants of what was once my manhood. She had to have knee replacement surgery three years ago, but they did that here, behind the speaker cases that are behind the sound booth. I’m strapped upright to a board after my legs broke and spine nearly compacted from standing so long. Both of us have colostomy bags and are fed intravenously. Consciousness comes and goes. And yet she continues to try. God bless her for that. God bless her.

Please send help.


Bob Durant is a bizarro, weird, and horror writer who lives in beautiful and overpriced Portland, OR. This is his first ever publication. Please follow him on Twitter, as he has no friends.


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Flash Fiction Friday: I Am Tigre de los Bravo

by: Andrew Novak

The people see me dance and they can’t believe. They compliment my wooden mask, its bright saffron and blackened stripes. They stare into my reflective eyes and touch my mouth lined with rotting teeth of creature.

Only, it’s no mask.

It’s my face.

It’s real.

And the people, they love me.

Burning yellow and black-spotted, I run around town kicking up dust at the base of the mountain. I’ve twice trashed the offices of the major political parties. First with cinder stones, then with fire.

I run faster than cops can drive.

At the strip club, ladies tug my tail and stroke my fur under dim purple lights. I purr to the sounds of reggaetón. The owner of this place knows me well.

I blast dumpy rock music at unreasonable volumes in the zócalo. When people come to stop me, to shut me down, I spit cheap beer onto their clothes. When they spit back, I catch it in my mouth and laugh.

I eat tobacco leaves and dance the danza.

I smoke a pipe and drink mezcal.

Yes, I’m the wiseguy who buys up all the books at the bookshop. And after I’ve read each one, I eat the pages. I chew paper to pulp and swallow.

The mayor hates me and prays for my death. He knows: I secretly run this town and, if pushed, I’ll run it right into the ground.

The people erected a statue in my honor, right downtown. But someone spray-painted a hooked phallus ejaculating over the bronze face of my likeness. That someone was me.

The mayor, he hates me because I was wearing one of those trick handshake-buzzers the first time I met him. He looked so foolish yelping on stage, pulling back his soft palm, and flailing in front of thousands of respected city denizens. I burned his house down later that week.

My email address is I spend hours each day sending obscene spam emails to every person I hate.

I care for stray dogs and cats. I feed them the food I cook for myself. I also keep a green bird as a friend that I teach to swear at passersby.

I spray-piss poems onto walls and prolapse my ass squeezing coiling shits into rich people’s pools.

Yes, I live on peanut butter sandwiches.

And still I run faster than cops can drive.


Andrew Novak is a journalist and news editor in Washington, DC. He likes to read. He likes to write. He likes to take pictures with his camera. His fiction has appeared in Shotgun Honey, the Robbed of Sleep anthology series, Dark Moon Digest, and Out of the Gutter Online. His bloggings can be found at Neon Grisly.


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Flash Fiction Friday: My World-Famous Christmastime Eggnog

Editor’s note: In honor of the season and as a public service, we are departing from FFF’s usual narrative format to bring you this important eggnog recipe.

by Frank Edler

It’s Christmastime again. A time of joy, love, warmth, giving and all that nonsense. What Christmastime really is all about is that it’s about time I share my world famous Christmastime eggnog recipe with you all. No, it’s not a old family concoction passed down from generation to generation and across oceans and time. Instead, this is a recipe I have been perfecting for over four decades, tweaking it as the years pass by. Adding some of this, taking away a dash of that and honing it into the decadent, unforgettable Christmastime drink that it is today. It’s just so good that I can’t not share it with the world. So here we go!

You will need:

  • 36 eggs, yolks separated
  • One pitcher of milk, direct from the cow
  • One pitcher of heavy cream, store bought
  • One of those giant bags of white processed sugar from a bakery supply store
  • Bourbon, barrell and all
  • Rum, lots of rum
  • Nutmeg (Meg Ryan can be substituted)
  • Christmas Cheer
  • A sprig of mistletoe

To Prepare My World Christmastime Famous Eggnog:

1) Milk the cow. This is essential. The fresh, unpasteurized, non-homogenized milk is the cornerstone of my world famous Christmastime eggnog. If you go with store bought you may was well just stop right here and pick up a pint of that pre-made garbage. Don’t be a loser, it’s Christmastime!

2) Separate three dozen eggs, reserve both yolks and whites in separate bowls. Once all eggs are divided, scoop out three yolks by hand and attempt to juggle them.

3) I’m not kidding, do that.

4) Ha! Fool! You’ve got egg yolk all over the place don’t you? A mess already! Duh, even if you are a professional juggler you can’t juggle yolks. Everybody knows this, it’s scientifically impossible. And let’s face it, baking is science so consider yourself WOKE! Leave the mess where it is and don’t wash your hands and let’s move on.

5) Okay, now you’re going to need to get a beater or whisk or you can just use your index finger. Take the bowl of egg whites and beat them into soft peaks.** I don’t really know what that means but I’ve seen it in almost every recipe that asks you to use egg whites. I mean, what else could you really do with egg whites anyway? Like make a egg white omelette I suppose but you’re certainly not the type of cretin that would eat an egg white omelette if you’re making my world famous Christmastime eggnog. So, just go ahead and make whatever you interpret soft peaks to be, because I sure as shit don’t know. We’ll maybe make crafts with that later so set it aside and move to the next step.

6) Oh! I almost forgot. Quick, get a plain drinking glass. Alright, now take like 5 egg yolks and put them in the glass. Oh, just do it! No more juggling, I promise. Cool, now CHUG THAT SHIT! Fuck yeah, just like Rocky! Bad ass!*

7) Now you’re going to want to take however many egg yolks are left (I lost count, if you’ve kept track in your head to this point you’re a friggin’ dork) and add them to the biggest bowl you have in your house. Open the ridiculously large bag of sugar and add just enough to fill the bowl to the rim.

8) Ever make meatloaf? Good, get in there with your hands and combine the sugar and yolks. You’re going to make another mess obviously but that’s only because you’re a dumbass. Who the hell would add that much sugar to anything. You will rot your teeth out for sure. So don’t worry about all the sugar falling out all over the counter, that’s on you pal and you don’t need it anyway. Glutton.

9) DON’T WASH YOUR HANDS! I know your hands are like human sandpaper now with the yolk/sugar mixture forming a 25-grit coating up to your wrists, but we’re going to have to power through these next few parts.

10) Now, the fun part. The bourbon barrel. No! Wait! The rum first! Pour yourself a shot, toast to some insignificant bullshit and down that puppy. There, don’t you feel less irritated about this recipe for my world famous Christmastime eggnog now?

11) The bourbon, for real now. Pop the top off the barrel. Be decadent. Lick some out like you’re a cat. When finished, pour all that egg and sugar in there. Get a mop or something and stir that up real good.

12) So now, what you have is just nog. Yes, I know there is egg in it but really what you need to do is thicken up that bitch. Only then will you have a true, world famous Christmastime egg nog. What you’re going to want to do here is take that store-bought heavy cream and pour it on in there. The store bought stuff is actually so processed it has the comparative consistency of wall spackle. Continue to stir with mop until thick. When the mop handle stands upright on its own, you have reached desired thickness.

13) Take another shot of Rum. You’re gonna need it.

14) Ladle out equal parts egg nog in the fanciest, most festive, gaudy Christmas themed eggnog glasses you can muster.

15) Grate a little nutmeg (or Meg Ryan) over the top. Garnish with mistletoe. I know it’s poisonous but it’s Christmastime, god damnit, where’s your holiday spirit?!

16) One more shot of rum. You’re really, really going to need it!

17) Serve and enjoy.

Merry Christmastime Everybody!

*Puke if necessary.

**I nearly forgot the soft peaks! After you’ve finished my world famous Christmastime eggnog and the wave of nausea and/or agita and/or diarrhea has passed, do something with those soft peaks. Wouldn’t want them to go to waste. You can use them as a facial cream, you could do some papier-mâché or perhaps use them as paint on canvass. Seriously, I have no clue what the hell you do with soft peaks. Let me know what you come up with!


Frank Edler may have been drinking when he wrote this recipe. He wants everyone to know he dated Mrs. Claus before she ever met that fucking dick. He was her first, and Santa just has to live with that shit. Listen to him talk bizarro fiction on Bizzong! The Bizarre and Weird Fiction Podcast. He wrote Death Gets a Book, and you didn’t.


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Flash Fiction Friday: Paying You For?

by G. J. Hart

A few moments after the bullet gathers up your heart and scarpers, Jennifer demands you play golf. You must refuse. You haven’t played in years, and your knees will seize like the shears buried that night the moon whistled and kicked the ground. As she swings her Sunbeam into the car park of the abandoned course, she texts to say that, in a ridiculous universe, golf is a sensible way to pass the time. Ignore It.

A few moments after the tractor staggers across three lanes and sends your Sunbeam spinning into the emergency phone box, Jennifer offers ‘the tour‘. As she fingers her tie and mumbles something about free sandwiches, you feel yourself – despite her poor people skills – falling in love. Be warned – her diffidence and largesse are a ploy: if you capitulate, she will lead you beneath unwitting monitions to where – before a boarded narthex – paupers coil and brigands beg and quislings hold their throats. Remember: you cannot demand a refund and there will be no sandwiches.

A few moments after the horses bolt and the lea spits against the squall, you are invited to breakfast. Jennifer drives you to Tommy’s: a greasy spoon converted from a public convenience and fabled for its links to the greensman murders of ’21. The cafe is appointed with plastic chairs, prints of fighting dogs and syringes filled with tomato ketchup and Piccalilli. Jennifer – who you will soon ask to marry – suggests rambling egg, curried toe; dapperlings – obviously and perhaps fried bread. If you refuse – and you must – you will be offered at table at Parsimillion House: a private dining club serving sizzling titles but no taste. Order tap water and heed your father’s advice – only a halfwit pays for the immodest follies of others. Or socks.

A few moments after your roots contract and your neck is set in blue glass pebbles, Jennifer agrees to marry you. The ceremony is brief and the waiting staff familiar. After the last guest leaves, she hands you a beach towel, rips cans from the Sunbeam’s rear spoiler and drives you to the northernmost crater. I have to work, she says and spends the honeymoon flipping derivatives as you sit alone, adjusting your towel and watching the sun settle on the earth’s shoulder like an amber epaulette. Do you feel safe now? She says, appearing over the rim, her face grey as moon dust.


G. J. Hart has a beard, as he damn well should. He lives in London and argues with himself on twitter, which is not a place. Find more of his stories at


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Flash Fiction Friday: The Ghosts Live in the Walls

by Nimrod Tzarking

The walls are white, immense. A void. Gauzy specs wiggle in the air, wrinkles in the eye revealing flaws in the infinite, giving way to ghosts.

The ghosts live in the electric. The electric lives in the walls. The walls are throbbing with crazed ectoplasm. How much of me lives in there?

It’s a fresh day. The walls are screaming hundreds of names; I do not know which one is mine. Janet, Doris, Evey, they moan. Juanita, Natasha, Lucille. Faces dance in the ectoplasm. There are no mirrors here, but sometimes a face reaches out. Sometimes they cluster.

One is reaching out to me today. It slinks from the wall and into my grasping hands, its surface sticky and its color inconsistent. I hold a right hand to it, and my left to the face I am wearing. I am not a blind person- I cannot feel if they’re actually the same, or if this is just what faces feel like. My reflection is muddy and distorted in its surface. It coos and licks my earlobe. I wrap my arms around it and kiss its sticky face. I do not remember any songs, so I hum a new melody. Light flickers.

Its voice is tiny but unbreakable. It whispers, these faces are not Yours. Perhaps once they were. Now, You grow around their bones.

I look at her fellows in the walls. Each face has a different character. Among them are warriors, mystics, victims and tricksters. Their features are always in motion. Noses pinch and wrinkle. Eyes wander, laze, and squint. Mouths curl, gape, undulate and smack.

Time wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for meals. They come on plastic trays, each morsel segregated in a shallow rectangle pit. I touch foods. I fill my fists with peas, sprinkle them in gravy, and smear my skin with taters. The ghosts sing oooo and aaaah. These boundaries are my play-things. Perhaps I am an artist.

The square white men get frantic when I paint. The void-white walls are stained with streaks of jelly scrawled in shapes unplanned. My arms have an intelligence of their own. Mashed carrots pool in subtle crannies, edges tugged by the weight of having-worked. No mind could guide these subtle forms. Only an artist. Only a room.

They are wordless when they fetch me, draped in ham and tossing crumbs. But I see they carry suds in buckets and wheel a bed with straps.

Leather bites into my arms. Fluorescents whiz overhead. The ghosts sing from their lightbulbs, fear not, for we are here. I smile. A voice grunts with disgust beyond my eyes, whispers a hateful word. Someone’s scrubbing the walls I left behind.

The wheels pause. More leather is crammed in my mouth. Rolling my eyes as far as they’ll go, I see a metal box with blinking lights above my head. A metal band with white muffs wraps around my skull. The machine hums. The dial twists.

A pulse runs through my head, but I feel no fear. The electric is within me now, and I am inside of it. I am in the walls.


Nimrod Tzarking is a middling dungeon master and a bad influence on children. He eats nothing but whey powder, eggs, and coffee. He teaches literacy in Kansas, which means he might not be teaching for long. His fledgling website ( features angsty fan fiction and Bizarro fiction reviews. You should be his friend!


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