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Posts tagged “Kirk Jones

New Release: Die Empty

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middle age n. 1. Spending one year’s disposable income on vinyl figures, only to realize a complete He-Man collection isn’t going to make your current life any better. Beast Man and Cyclops don’t give a fuck about you or your failing marriage. 2. Resolving to die empty and alone. 3. Death showing up at your office door in need of a vacation. 4. Designing goods for Death that inspire consumer-driven fatalities—faulty steering mechanisms, toxic dishwasher detergent inserts that look like jumbo fruit snacks—anything that will help tip people over the edge before Death has to pursue them. 5. Waking to find your house chock-full of the merchandise you created, merchandise designed to kill. Now everything from pouring your cereal to activating your car’s cigarette lighter has become a death trap. Yet as your world falls apart, no matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to fucking die.

Get it here.


Flash Fiction Friday: Self-Replicating Psychopath

By Kirk Jones

One prison cell. A vast array of blades and automatic weapons. One man . . . make that two men. Shit. Now there are four of them. I guess I’d better start with the chainsaw.

I woke up in a prison cell this morning to a monotone voice blaring through a loud speaker. “You’ve just been infused with a catalyst for human asexual reproduction. To your left, you’ll notice an arm sprouting out of your waistline. To your right, you’ll see a head working through your rib cage. If all goes as anticipated, you’ll be replicating hundreds of times every hour. Do nothing, and you’ll all suffocate. Fight to stay alive, and maybe we’ll give you the antidote and grant you parole in five minutes.”

As I’m listening, the second me is already on the floor with another copy sprouting out of him. We look at one another, then to the stockpile of weapons. By the time there are four of us in the room, I have the chainsaw in hand. Number three comes at me from behind. A head works its way between his collarbone and shoulder blade. My chainsaw tears through both heads and I wonder how many times I’ll die today. Before I can reflect any further a hand claws at my stomach to pull itself out of me. I reach for a twelve-inch blade on the wall and lob the hand off. My innards spill to the ground, but the stump keeps growing out of my flesh until I’m bleeding out on the floor in front of number eight as he watches a foot work its way through the bleeding wound where his right hand should be. Then, with three minutes left on the clock, I’m dead again.

As I feel a set of toes squirm to the surface of my wrist, my shoulder begins to throb rhythmically. I’m thinking it’s a heart attack, but when a nipple surfaces on my bicep, I realize my copy’s coming out at an awkward angle. I drive the knife deep into the pulsating mass on my shoulder. Blood spurts from the wound, covering the conglomerate of men on the floor. Their mangled bodies look like a blood-soaked game of twister. My vision blurs. But before I’m gone, I decide to put an end to this madness. I reach for one of the grenades in the corner, pull the pin, and drive it deep into the pile of squirming copies on the floor. The grenade detonates in my hand, but the bodies squelch the explosion. Only a few die. A few more are dying, including me. As the world fades I watch an arm covered in hot shards of metal emerge from the heaping mass on the floor.

I try to ignore the fragments of metal seared into my body as I clumsily top the knee-deep pile of bodies. There’s one minute left on the clock, a foot writhing on my right ass cheek, and a gun in the far corner. It’s mine.

With the gun in hand, I wait for my next incarnation to fully form. A modest pain snakes like lightning through my right arm. The replica’s arm follows the trail of pain. Its shoulder buds at my shoulder. Its elbow buds at my elbow.

Thirty seconds left on the clock. As my replica’s head begins to tear through my skull, his fingers part from the flesh of my hand and grip the gun. I hear myself laughing behind me as warm steel grazes my chin. I worry he’ll pull the trigger too quickly, before he’s become independent of his host. But right before my skull fragments and scatters across the ceiling, I hear two heartbeats. One pumps a death dirge in adagio. The other thunders to the rhythm of life, telling a story in song of a man who died twenty times in five minutes and still managed to cheat death.

 

__________
Kirk Jones is an instructor of humanities for the State University of New York. His work has appeared, or will be appearing in Amazing Stories of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, A Hacked-Up Holiday Massacre, New Tales of the Old Ones, Bust Down the Door & Eat All the Chickens, Unicorn Knife Fight, Flashes in the Dark, and on Bizarro Central. His first book, Uncle Sam’s Carnival of Copulating Inanimals, was published by Eraserhead Press imprint NBAS in 2010.


Michael Allen Rose: King of Trades

 “Some folks dabble in multiple areas of interest. The risk, of course, is spreading oneself too thin. But that’s not a problem for Michael Allen Rose, author, actor, and musician. I had a chance to converse with him recently about his many artistic endeavors and past successes, including the recent publication of his first book, Party Wolves in my Skull.”

 

Click HERE to read the rest of the interview with Kirk Jones and find out what’s up with MAR and  the bathrobe.


Flash Fiction Friday: A Minor Obstruction in the Piping

by Kirk Jones

Jim watched in disgust as the six-inch deep pile of tissue paper spiraled in the john, refusing to go down. He waited as long as he could, pleading with the toilet’s contents, “Flush, damn you! Please?” When it became apparent that his prayer was in vain, he called out to the one person within earshot who, like the porcelain god, wasn’t listening. “Damn it Sandy! Must you use half a roll of toilet paper every time you take a piss?!”

He knew what came next. The fifty-foot septic snake, which he bought for what he assumed would be a minor obstruction, was going to be put to use yet again. He walked downstairs, brushed the lint webs from his dryer out of the doorway to the garage, put on his rubber boots and stomped his gloves several times in case any spiders had decided they would make a nice home. After he was sure whatever might have dwelled inside the gloves had died, he put them on, grabbed the metal snake and headed to the back yard, uncoiling it as he walked.

The tank lid, as always, was a bitch to get off, but he managed after a few tugs on the rotting stretch of rope tied to the handle. Then he slid the snake clumsily into the pipe leading back to his house, waiting to feel the blockage. At ten feet, there was still nothing. He continued to twenty, where he finally felt resistance. Getting down on his hands and knees, he drove the snake into the pipe at full force until he loosed whatever it was that waited for him. Then the water started pouring from the piping into the septic. He looked away from the stream of refuse and inhaled deeply, trying to avoid the smell, when he heard something sizable plunge into the water from the pipe. “If that’s another one of the grandkid’s toys, so help me God,” he whispered to himself as he used the snake to fish through the septic. Then it surfaced, one finger at a time. A hand. It appeared to be reaching out to him. Even though he had seen his wife inside only a few minutes before, Jim’s first thought was that she, or someone, had somehow fallen in. So he reached in and clasped the hand, pulling it up with force that anticipated a body on the other end. But the hand ended at the wrist, crowned by purpling flesh and crimson.

He dropped the hand back into the sewage and combed his fingers through the grass, looking into the tank to confirm what he had seen, what he had felt. As if on cue, the hand bobbed back to the surface and receded again into the dark, bilious pool.

As he turned to vomit, the pipes chimed with the now familiar sound of thick, fleshy appendages plunging into the murky waters. Jim looked down and watched as hand after hand rode the current into the tank. Unlike the first, these hands did not float apathetically on the surface of the sludge. They skittered from the opening in the ground, pouring out in all directions. Before Jim could run, the hands overtook him. More rushed to the surface to join their brethren as even more slithered into the tank below from the pipe. Jim cried in horror as the hands pulled him down and dragged him towards the opening. Then he was in the tank with them, struggling to find solid ground beneath the water. On the ceiling, hundreds of hands writhed like a single living entity. Instinctually, he parted his lips to scream, and the hands rushed inwards. He chewed at the fingers, crunching sewage-soaked bone and flesh between his teeth, but soon the hands pried his jaw apart and tore at his insides as the light from above was slowly eclipsed by the tank’s concrete lid.

__________

Kirk Jones is an instructor of humanities for the State University of New York. His work has appeared, or will be appearing in Amazing Stories of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, A Hacked-Up Holiday Massacre, New Tales of the Old Ones, Bust Down the Door & Eat All the Chickens, Unicorn Knife Fight, Flashes in the Dark, and on Bizarro Central. His first book, Uncle Sam’s Carnival of Copulating Inanimals, was published by Eraserhead Press imprint NBAS in 2010.


A Letter of Warning to the Smutzarro Community

Greetings Smutzarros, I’m Cam Kirkeron. No, you don’t recognize me, I’m not someone famous. I am but a simple man on a crusade. You’ve clearly landed on this webpage because you got distracted from your daily pornography searches. I’m here on this digital den of sin and vice because I am in possession of certain photographical evidence depicting the administrators of this website in compromising positions. Hence, my appearance in this most unlikely of pulpits.

I had the misfortune of becoming aware of this “genre” of “literature” through the work of one Steve Lowe, whose quote-unquote book “Muscle Memory” goes to great lengths to slander several well-known and morally-astute celebrities with lies, innuendo and crude toilet humor. Normally, I let this sort of thing slide off my back and pray that the hearts and minds of such wayward sheep will one day be shepherded back into His Heavenly fold.

But this egregious affront to decency and wholesomeness known as Bizarro fiction simply cannot stand any longer. Of particular note is this offshoot of Smutzarro that calls itself “The New Bizarro Author Series”. What twisted mind thought up this crude form of hazing, unleashing desperate losers into the world to harass and harangue decent folk into sullying their hearths and hearts with the mere presence of such distasteful, disgusting, damaging material, all for the sake of earning a contract to create even more filth? According to my detailed investigation of the matter, one Kevin Donihe can be held most accountable.

Take this current batch of NBAS swill. They have the nerve to call themselves the Magnificent Seven, though I’d be shocked to learn if any of them can count that high. Seven books of such atrocious subject matter, such that I can hardly describe. But for the good of decency on the Internet, I will soldier forward and do just that, detailing the lowlights of these filth-filled tomes.

First you have Eric Hendrixson’s “Bucket of Face”. This piece of pseudo fiction glorifies the life of a known sex offender and explicitly depicts an act of sexual congress between a man and a Kiwi fruit. Imagine your children getting their hands on this “Bucket of Sin”. This Hendrixson character has also gone so far as to offer cheap swag on Facebook to anyone who will “Like” his trash. So add bribery to his long list of flaws.

Then there’s Nicole Cushing’s “How to Eat Fried Furries”. Religion-hating, British-Comedy-imitating, hack-television-script-writing, indecipherable noise slapped onto paper. Trees died to make this thing come to life. And all this from a seemingly nice woman. Shocking to see members of the fairer sex involved in this depravity.

But not as shocking as this next entry, from fresh-faced youngster, Kirsten Alene. “Love in the Time of Dinosaurs” is about evil dinosaurs (devil lizards? OK, I can see that), indestructible monks (members of the clergy with super powers bestowed upon them by a higher authority? Yeah, I can get behind that!), and a forbidden love affair betwixt the two. Wait, what? Oh, Ms. Alene, what a shame. You were actually going somewhere, but then you fell on the crutch of the weak: violence, vulgar language and forbidden relations between species. What must your mother think?

When it comes to Caris O’Malley, I am of the opinion that he was not born to a proper mother – clearly he is the spawn of the Dark Lord, hatched from an egg just like in his book “The Egg Said Nothing”. Time-traveling loser repeatedly beats himself to death with a shovel, all the while cursing a blue streak and fornicating with a tramp? The O’Malley clearly says nothing of substance or value to humanity with this hot garbage.

But he’s not even the worst one. This Kirk Jones guy wrote a story about couches having… well, I just can’t bring myself to type such a thing. Reading “Uncle Sam’s Carnival of Copulating Inanimals” is like riding a bullet train straight to Hell. And Jones is in the engineer’s seat, using a noble charity to help disseminate his furniture fornication (I hereby dub the term DavenPorn) to the world.

Of course, DavenPorn pales in comparison to the unholy tripe authored by James Steele. “Felix and the Sacred Thor” is the most disgusting, demented and disturbed offering of the lot, glorifying the use of huge animal (I shudder to even consider this word) dildos as weapons, and the ritual sodomizing of America’s retail workforce (haven’t those people suffered enough?). A tenth circle of Hell awaits you, Mr. Steele.

And that brings us back to the beginning, and in my opinion, the worst of the lot. Steve Lowe’s Muscle Memory does not go to the extremes of James “the Damned” Steele, or Kirk “The Devil is in Mr.” Jones. And that’s what makes it so insidious and dangerous. I’ll confess that I snicker at the occasional fart joke like anyone else, but hear this: No one makes fun of Kirk Cameron and Terry Bradshaw on my watch! Help me rid the world of this trash. Burn it and light the night sky with our cleansing flames. Fire shall make you new again.

Now, go be productive and stop surfing for porn, or you’ll end up like one of these Smutzarros.

-CK