cunt toward enemy[13] terrorism is magic

There is a minefield in Golan Heights.

A pack of wolves lives among them, too light to trigger the sensors.

If they leave the minefield, they will be shot.

If the mines are removed, their ecosystem will be destroyed. And they will be shot.

Your paw on my sensor. Lithe, watchful. Just delicate enough to keep yourself alive. As long as you donโ€™t push too hard.


Rubicon clings naked to the damp body, his finger wiggling inside a bullet hole. His bony legs kneel on either side, his toes curling, whatโ€™s left of them. The sun is starting to creep into the room, hot with the smell of gunpowder. His soles are blinding, two side-view mirrors.

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Your Mother Has Fallen Out of Love With You

Rain sweeps cold and black from the sea, palm fronds slithering across the hotel parking lot. Itโ€™s the holidays and people sing in a church across the street.

The man is slim and dark-haired and wears a suit under a transparent rain jacket. The boy wears a black poncho covering most of his body, black wet hair plastered over his face so it looks like a ragged fringe of the hood.

โ€œA room for me and my son.โ€ He wraps his arm around the boy with a warm smile, clear insulation over glistening black.

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cunt toward enemy[12] disassociated portions

She doesnโ€™t recognize her own voice. Nine months without anyone to talk to. And when she did, it was in a voice changed by the burning substance. As if her time underground had transformed her into a demon.

Time streams black from her head. Hair shaved at different lengths for topical testing. The caustic wax burning into her skull. Somehow more freakish and dehumanizing than if she was shaved completely. Prickly patches and dark chopped lengths.

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protection from gravity

this story was commissioned by an anonymous darkweb client. don’t read if you don’t want to see some horrible shit. “why don’t we gore the t-boys more? whats up with that”


I always had trouble making friends. I donโ€™t know what it is but sooner or later people get weird and I have no idea why. Itโ€™s like they smell something on me. I get a little excited sometimes, but who doesnโ€™t?

Community college. Evening class. You stood out immediately to me. So small in your skinny jeans, always looking down at your phone. Which meant I could watch you extensively and I didnโ€™t have to worry about ugly looks. Not that you could give a look like that. Youโ€™re perfect.


cunt toward enemy[11] 01:43

The vitals monitor beeps the countdown of the heart. Lazur sits next to the bed reading an old Lispector paperback of his motherโ€™s, The Passion According to G.H. She was never the type to underline, but her presence is still felt. Paper is delicate and fibrous as any tissue. His motherโ€™s hands dog-eared this page, spilled tea on that corner, and in every place the oil of her fingers lead to permanent near invisible changes.

Oh, my unknown love, remember that I was imprisoned there in the collapsed mine, and that by then the room had taken on an unutterable familiarity, like the truthful familiarity of dreams. And, as in dreams, what I canโ€™t reproduce for you is the essential color of its atmosphere.

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Cunt Toward Enemy[9] Sciamachy

The shadow walks toward him, empty soles silent on the carpet.

Lazur reaches under the pile of clothes he removed from his body earlier, boxer briefs soft on the back of his hand. He pulls out his gun and aims at the shadow and pulls the trigger faster than he intended, still adjusting to his actual body, and he must have missed because the shadow keeps gliding toward him and thereโ€™s a crack on the window like the crack on his mind.

Then he sees the hole in the shadow, edges sparking around a coin of night.

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Cuntdom Hearts: Dream Drop Distance

If you ‘act’ the most fatal ‘act’ of your life, the most fatal act of the epoch, you are depriving your life and the epoch of their deadly seriousness. From this consideration springs my first warning advice:
1. By no means should you consent to acting yourself, to become the actor of your life.

โ€” Gรผnther Anders to Claude Eatherly, the pilot of Straight Flush

Lazur stares into those hell blue eyes that reflect him without iridodialysis black or hyphemic red. Pupil, iris, sclera; clean circles of control.

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