Facebook Eternal by Justin Grimbol

 Ned logged on to facebook to stalk his dead wife. He clicked on her profile pics and found a shot of her sitting on Benjamin Franklin’s lap. She was drunk and wearing the tiniest skirt he had ever seen. He looked at more pics. Heaven looked rowdy. He had hoped that Heaven would be a like one long yoga class. Instead it seemed like a massive keg party.

There was one pic where she was doing a keg stand, with Chris Farley holding her upside down. Her shirt hung over her face. Her big titties dangled. There was another pic of the two kissing. Chris Farley was his favorite actor. Now whenever he watched one of his movies he would think of him boinking his dead, drunk wife. He was devastated. 

That’s it, he decided. I can’t take it anymore.

He deleted his dead wife from his friends list.

For a moment he felt better. A weight had been lifted. Then he decided maybe a little too much weight had been lifted. He wanted it back.

 He tried to re-friend her. But it wasn’t that simple. She had to accept the friend request.

He waited and hoped for her to accept the request.  “Come on, come on!” he mumbled to himself. An hour passed. She hadn’t accepted his request.

     It was late, but he was too anxious to sleep. “WHATS WRONG WITH YOU?” he yelled at his computer screen. “JUST ACCEPT MY FRIEND REQUEST! HOW CAN YOU BE SO CRUEL? YOU BITCH!”

He folded down his lap top and took a deep breath. “OK Ned, get a hold of yourself,” he said.

He waddled to the kitchen and made himself a massive ice-cream Sunday and turned on his favorite Rocky movie, the one where he fights off the zombie apocalypse. The movie calmed him down a little. He used to love comedies, but his wife had been hooking up with all his favorite dead comedians and now he found he couldn’t watch anything but horror movies.

The volume was too loud. It woke his daughter. She stumbled to the living room and snuggled up with him on the couch.

“Honey, it’s four in the morning,” Ned said. “It’s way passed your bed time.”

“I just want to watch a little bit of the movie,” she said.

“OK, just a little bit.”

She sat next to him and watched the movie.

 When she fell back to sleep he carried her into her bed and tucked her in.

He loved her hair. It was red and long like her mothers.

To say Mother Teresa was shocked when she woke up in Hell would be an understatement by CV Hunt

 

Mother Teresa opened her eyes to complete darkness. Her soul was filled with an overwhelming sense of doom as she realized she wasn’t in Heaven. Heaven would be filled with an all-consuming light and she would be enveloped in a sense of peaceful bliss. All she could feel was pain.

Her shoulders burned and her hands tingled immensely above her head. She felt her body pendulum. Her feet were not touching the ground. She was bound with rope and suspended. The rope dug into her fragile wrists – cutting off the circulation.

Panic gripped her chest. The sound of an endless racket toiled through her brain and the noise echoed in her brittle bones. The howl of the tortured was barely distinguishable from any of the other chaos. Somewhere a chainsaw ran constantly. And millions of dogs barked out of sync, creating a maddening and unbearable chorus.

She composed her foggy thoughts and wondered why she was here. She knew this had to be Hell.

“This was a mistake,” she said.

But she went unheard amidst the song of the damned.

The world slowly came into view as her eyes adjusted in the dim light. A faint red haze covered black jutting shapes resembling stalagmites and stalactites.

People mulled about. But they appeared as shadows in the poor lighting, inky outlines distorted. She knew they must be demons.

A group of three figures appeared before her, brandishing acoustic guitars. Their hands were grossly distorted, almost phallic. The figures struck up a folk song barely audible over the other racket. She couldn’t quite make out the lyrics, but she was certain it was a love ballad of some sort.

“Why am I here?” she screamed.

The figure in the middle wailed the chorus and slapped his dick-like fingers on the strings of his instruments.

“This is a mistake! I’m Mother Teresa! I’m God’s bride!”

The trio stopped, stared at her for a beat, and laughed manically at her. They clutched each other, doubled over, and slapped each other on the back with their cock-fingered hands, enjoying some joke between them.

“This is not funny! Let me go and take me to Heaven this instant!”

One of the shadowy men approached Mother Teresa and rubbed his penis fingers on her face. She winced away in disgust and spat in his blackened face.

The figure laughed at her disdain, the sound like rusted metal rubbed together. He said, “Your husband made a deal with our boss.”

“Liar!” she proclaimed. “My God would never make a deal with the devil!”

“Your God has had nothing but virgins since the beginning of time. My God has had nothing but whores. They came to an agreement upon a trade. But the transaction cannot be completed until the whore dies, which is in another ten years. Until then,” he waved his cock fingers toward the other two, “we’ve been instructed to romance you for his coming.”

The trio laughed and played folk music for the next ten years.

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C.V. Hunt is the author of HOW TO KILL YOURSELF and some other unpopular books. She lives somewhere in Ohio and spends 71.2% of her time throwing her life away. Her power animal is the sloth. You can find out what she's not doing by visiting her site: www.authorcvhunt.com

Copyright 2013 CV HUNT  

Stone Sex by Meg Sefton

Unfortunately, there is nothing to be done about the coupling of tombstones. First of all, their copulations are deafening — how they grunt and sigh! — and secondly, the sparks spewing from the friction — blue, green, yellow, and purple sparks — ignite fires in the dry season. (And when the fires erupt, corpses awaken and are enraged. They must be put down by truckloads of cool, damp earth.)  But the biggest problem with stone sex is this: A cemetery of newly formed stones.  And no one has managed to escape the certain pairing between death and a stone.

One time, a stone cutter, ambitious that his town should live, fashioned the tombstones into paving stones, stones for the fireplace, the threshold, the garden, thinking he could circumvent their original purpose. When he disappeared they only found a pile of stones beside the cemetery where he had been working.

What was convenient about the situation, however, was that the stone pile was a nice place for the townspeople to eat their sandwiches, so they stopped asking questions and began hanging out. Also, what was good about it was that the smooth stones made nice little ledges for their beer. So when a man did not return home at night, other women would relay this information to his frustrated wife: “Oh, he's still on the stone pile.”

One night a man materialized across the cemetery where they were sitting and drinking.

“Are you a ghost?” said Jacob. He had begun driving them crazy with this idea of diverting the creek so it ran next to the graves. They could sink a barrel of ale into its cool body, he said. It would be woman for them and they could be like the man, filling her vessel, and together, they could make cool beer. He was always wild with his crazy metaphors and his stupid ideas. His horny talk was probably inspired by the horny stones they had subdued for the season by anchoring them to the ground with chains.

“I'm not a ghost,” said the man.

“Are you a newcomer?”

“ This implies I'm staying.”

“Are you God?”

“Would God do this?” and he reached into one of their sacks, grabbed a beer, popped off the cap, and guzzled it down.

“I don't know,” Phillip said. He was the town tombstone engraver and he was a philosopher of sorts. Engraving the dash between the dates of birth and death made him shaky. What did the dash represent? It was all so ordinary. Were they all so alike? It made him depressed. “Jesus ate even after he rose from the grave.”

“Stop being morbid,” Jacob said. His wife Tatiana said the same thing. In fact, he sometimes wondered if they slept together. They said many of the same things, in exactly the same way. It made him angry, then it made him depressed and he couldn't do anything about it. He couldn't even prove anything definitively.

“Well I can assure you I'm not God. Excuse me, this is underfoot,” and he picked up a long-handled scythe they had not noticed before. Apparently it had been on the ground. He leaned it against a tree. “I hate it when stuff like this could bean you in the head any moment if you step on it wrong.”

A scythe, what a cliché, thought Phillip who expected more from the grim reaper. Did even religious clichés have to come true? Were there no surprises?

“I've had sex with your wives. They're all very good. You are lucky men.”

Was this guy nuts? Phillip thought. They would kill him, all together, with their hands around his throat. There were about twenty five of them. But he wasn't a cliché in this: He was pretty buff for the grim reaper.

“While you guys have been yucking it up on the pile, which by the way, is the grave of a dead man, I've been enjoying life. Your women are very lonely and very receptive. I've learned how to knit, how to dandle your children on my knee. They gave me tea and gossip and practically talked me into their beds. I love this town. I love this place. I think I'll stay.”

“We've got to get rid of him,” said Jacob when the man had wandered off into the misty fields with his scythe. “Our women were fine before he got here. We're screwed.”

“We must have interfered with the balance of things,” said Phillip. “Maybe that's why we're being cursed with this maggot.”

And so that's what they did. They released the stones so they could couple, except at night, when they wanted to drink, they cooled them down with water from the creek and it was quiet and peaceful again and the men got drunk and the women went back to their creative, secret occupations which involved, among other things, ruling the world. 

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Meg Sefton lives and writes in Winter Springs, Florida at the edges of suburban sprawl. In fact, keep going down her road a tad and you hit the east coast where, in her mind, she is frolicking in the surf. She blogs her original stuff, some of which have made it to publication: http://blackshattered.wordpress.com/.

Copyright 2013 Meg Sefton.