processes

Written

Something had changed in the world and it had become bad. Going outside was dangerous. It was very bad in the field across from the parking lot. The ground was covered in sluggish lobes and it was easy to step inside the openings. I stayed in the house. I don’t think it was my house but it was where we were when it started. We didn’t remember things, or we didn’t have the ability to act on what we remembered.

He was showing me something in the second room down the hall. There was clutter everywhere and it was a small room. I stood outside and looked in. He had a large pot of soup and he opened the lid and particles or vapor came from it and filled the air like a disc of steam. It was difficult to see. It felt wrong. The soup had been in the refrigerator and was cold and congealed. He smiled and was not alarmed and was stupid and amused. He was “showing me something” but not thinking much about it. The cloud of air or particles or moisture above the pot seemed to be getting brighter or more “active” in a way that brightness does not describe. It was a kind of “bubbling” that was “dirty”. I had a really bad feeling. I reached for a white cord that was on the floor and pulled on it. Even though I was pulling it sideways and would bend the prongs, I didn’t want to go inside the room. If I went inside the room something permanent might happen to me, that had already happened to the world. I pulled the cord and I think the process stopped. But there was no way of knowing which processes had started or ended.

cunt toward enemy[13] terrorism is magic

Written

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 don’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, what’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.

💣 👅 READ MORE 👅 💣

Your Mother Has Fallen Out of Love With You

Written

Rain sweeps cold and black from the sea, palm fronds slithering across the hotel parking lot. It’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.

“A room for me and my son.” He wraps his arm around the boy with a warm smile, clear insulation over glistening black.

🛎️ READ 🛎️

cunt toward enemy[12] disassociated portions

Written

She doesn’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.

💣 👅 READ MORE 👅 💣

protection from gravity

Written

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 don’t know what it is but sooner or later people get weird and I have no idea why. It’s like they smell something on me. I get a little excited sometimes, but who doesn’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 didn’t have to worry about ugly looks. Not that you could give a look like that. You’re perfect.

👁️👁️👁️🪚👁️👁️👁️

cunt toward enemy[11] 01:43

Written

The vitals monitor beeps the countdown of the heart. Lazur sits next to the bed reading an old Lispector paperback of his mother’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 mother’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 can’t reproduce for you is the essential color of its atmosphere.

💣 👅 READ MORE 👅 💣