Virulent by John Edward Lawson

One day, while gathering plantains, I happened upon a fruit-bearing penis. The thing was roughly the size of an adult, with large fronds and fruit of every type. I at first considered tapping it for sap, but in the end let it be. To ensure that this discovery remained unnoticed I did my best to obscure the path I had followed.
    At night I took women from the village up to that desolate area on the farmland’s border. Darkness hid the nature of the “tree” under which we made love; I felt it prudent to take advantage of such abundant virility.
    Inevitably my scheme was discovered when the women began birthing various fruits. Despite--or perhaps because of--the fact that the fruit was quite tasty (or so I was told) the villagers became unsettled. Roused by such obvious heresy they stormed the farm and burned my prized fruit-bearing penis alive, all the way down to the ground. This in turn ignited the underbrush, and soon the blaze spread to all the farm.
    I have wandered penniless and alone ever since. To this day I cannot decipher whether the plant was a blessing or a curse.
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John Edward Lawson has published nine books, seven chapbooks, and over five hundred works in anthologies, magazines, and literary journals worldwide. He is a winner of the Fiction International Emerging Writers Competition, and has been a finalist for the Stoker Award and Wonderland Award. Other nominations include the Dwarf Stars Award, the Pushcart Prize, and the Rhysling Award. As a freelance editor he worked for Raw Dog Screaming Press, Double Dragon Publishing, and National Lampoon, has edited seven anthologies, and served as editor-in-chief for The Dream People. Recently he became a columnist at IMJ, covering events in the publishing industry.





"Virulent" originally published at The New Absurdist
Copyright John Edward Lawson
Artwork by Max Ernst

 

A Heartless Romance by John Edward Lawson

I closed my eyes and puckered my lips; my heart was doing the same. I never imagined my heart and I would go that far but we did, and it was unnervingly exciting. I wanted to whisper, “Don’t look.” Or, “Don’t tell me if my mouth tastes funny.” Or, “This hole in my chest is getting cold.” Instead we kissed long and hard, and the serenity that came over me only just barely countered the quickening of my breath, the mounting tension in my muscles. The kiss itself could not have lasted more than ten seconds but was as draining as a funeral service. When we finally drew apart my lips were dripping warmth--not a wetness induced by the passion of the moment, no; it is simply in a heart’s nature to be a bloody mess.
    We held back in wonder momentarily, laying there in the stark moonlight with the stiff grass complaining against our backs. Then we simply embraced. It pulsed sticky against my cheek, and yes I am not ashamed to admit that in that moment I took the liberty of fondling a ventricle. Rest assured there was no protest from my heart.
    “I…love you,” I said uneasily. It was the first time for that arrangement of syllables to pass the hurdle of my lips, but somehow they made it.
    “Don’t get carried away,” my heart said with it’s typical brashness. “You’ve got that attachment thing going on, don’t you? That co-dependancy thing. Seen it on the TV.”
    No, I wouldn’t let my heart spoil the moment’s worth, not after all we had been through. So after a short lull I looked over its quivering, bulbous exterior and said, “Check out those muscles. You’ve been working out again, haven’t you?”
    “Ah, well,” it chuckled, finally softening. “You noticed? Do I really look like all that?”
    “You know it,” I purred reassuringly.
    So I leaned back on my elbows and watched my heart strike some muscle poses, cranking out coronary-worthy pumps in the attempt to impress me. “How about that,” it huffed. “How you like me now?”
    “You’re the only heart for me.” Having said that I let my mind wander a bit, which brought on a surge of panic. “Oh no. Oh no, oh no. What are we going to do? Huh?”
    “Hey, we got away clean. Sure there was some gunfire, and sure some people got hurt, but we made it out of there okay. All’s we got to do now is stick to the plan and get moving. Head down Mexicali way and lay low for a while.”
    This settled my nerves enough that I was able to start gathering our get-away gear. “I love you. I really do.”
    My heart did not reply.
    “That man, the one at the desk? He had pretty good aim, huh?”
    “Good enough to tear your chest open pretty bad.”
    In that grove of trees it felt as though we were redefining enchantment with this criminal affair. Robbery, murder, arson, we did it all with a passion that had been lacking in every other moment of my life. My heart had me in its grip, I knew it then as surely as I do now, and maybe in the final analysis I would be no more than a pawn blinded by love in this game of rogue excess.
    “It’s time we got a move on. Remember, careful what you say to people. All’s we got to do is hook the first car what comes along, then we’re home free. Or we’re walkin’.” I followed my heart out of the woods. We took to the road and the ensuing reliance on my feet gave me a whole new appreciation for them. But that love quadrangle is another story altogether.
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John Edward Lawson has published nine books, seven chapbooks, and over five hundred works in anthologies, magazines, and literary journals worldwide. He is a winner of the Fiction International Emerging Writers Competition, and has been a finalist for the Stoker Award and Wonderland Award. Other nominations include the Dwarf Stars Award, the Pushcart Prize, and the Rhysling Award. As a freelance editor he worked for Raw Dog Screaming Press, Double Dragon Publishing, and National Lampoon, has edited seven anthologies, and served as editor-in-chief for The Dream People. Recently he became a columnist at IMJ, covering events in the publishing industry.








"A Heartless Romance" originally published at RedWritingHood.com
Copyright John Edward Lawson
Artwork Remedios Varo

Attila King by John Edward Lawson

Attila the Hun was sent to the grimy, smoky future: the 1990s. The mighty warrior king had not come to conquer. Instead, he sought only to observe the United States Postal Service in action. He hoped to bring great renown to his people by instituting an efficient parcel system of his own.
    “What wonders the future holds…such technology! Such advances! Primary care physicians and dentists under separate health plans!” He clucked his tongue in astonishment. “My land will benefit greatly from future knowledge.”
    While strolling the gritty pavement of Los Angeles, Attila was approached by five pale skinned police officers. “Excuse me sir,” the lead officer said. “Do you mind if we examine your clothes?”
    Attila's Mongolian ears did not comprehend; he wouldn't have let them inspect his furs and leathers regardless.
    Suspecting the furs to be from endangered species the officers grabbed him. “Do you have any sharp objects in your pockets, sir?” Two more police joined them.
    Attila offered the foreign dogs some choice archaic Mongolian profanity. After finding two concealed daggers on him they proceeded to give him the Rodney King treatment. Or, it would have been the Rodney King treatment, except…
    In ancient Mongolia Rodney was busy introducing polyester and margaritas to the nomadic warriors, profiting greatly from his knowledge of the future.


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John Edward Lawson has published nine books, seven chapbooks, and over five hundred works in anthologies, magazines, and literary journals worldwide. He is a winner of the Fiction International Emerging Writers Competition, and has been a finalist for the Stoker Award and Wonderland Award. Other nominations include the Dwarf Stars Award, the Pushcart Prize, and the Rhysling Award. As a freelance editor he worked for Raw Dog Screaming Press, Double Dragon Publishing, and National Lampoon, has edited seven anthologies, and served as editor-in-chief for The Dream People. Recently he became a columnist at IMJ, covering events in the publishing industry.


Attila King originally published by Bust Down the Doors and Eat All the Chickens.
Copyright John Edward Lawson
Artwork by Carlo Carra

Tesla’s Brigade by John Edward Lawson

Twelve children were sent to the future to communicate a desperate message on behalf of their era. Future humans will phase out hearing altogether due to noise pollution. Tesla knew such a predicament would arise so he instructed the children in the ways of sign language.
    “Why have they sent you to us?” the future humans will ask.
    “Keyser Wilhelm needs to borrow some milk.”
    This statement will lead to solemn deliberation amongst future governments. Wild gesticulation will rule the day.
    The decision: “We can’t see how one ‘borrows’ a cup of milk. After usage the milk is incapable of being returned.”
    Saddened by the rampant stinginess they encountered, the envoy returned to the early twentieth century. Tesla administered a sound spanking to them. Meanwhile, Keyser Wilhelm was unable to bake a proper cake for receiving foreign dignitaries, leading to World War I and the popularity of Veganism.

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John Edward Lawson has published nine books, seven chapbooks, and over five hundred works in anthologies, magazines, and literary journals worldwide. He is a winner of the Fiction International Emerging Writers Competition, and has been a finalist for the Stoker Award and Wonderland Award. Other nominations include the Dwarf Stars Award, the Pushcart Prize, and the Rhysling Award. As a freelance editor he worked for Raw Dog Screaming Press, Double Dragon Publishing, and National Lampoon, has edited seven anthologies, and served as editor-in-chief for The Dream People. Recently he became a columnist at IMJ, covering events in the publishing industry.

"Tesla's Brigade" originally published in Idiot's Manifesto
Copyright John Edward Lawson 
Artwork Remedios Varo

The Father of All Torment by John Edward Lawson

When the world leaked from your eyes the violence of your tongue capsized, taking down five thousand lost souls with it. What were you thinking? Trying to carry the dead with you when you left…it’s unconscionable. Oh, enough about that. What can I do to help, you ask? I can keep my mouth shut, for one--something you would have been wise to do yourself. After all, the Paterfamilias of Dread would have a great interest in any word on your whereabouts. You know how it is, with all those phantoms of animals reanimated and skulking about. One truly cannot be too careful these days. Even the masturbated ghosts of babies never to be born are enough to give one pause; the vengeful bastards of monofornication would do anything to drag others down to their level of misery.
    Thought the afterlife would be some kind of party, did you? Don’t answer that, don’t say a word. Ah well, you psychics, you all think you’re just so smart, eh? Honestly. It sounds like a good scam when you are still drawing breath, but did you once consider the ramifications of your actions? Do you think this kind of overcrowding makes for a pleasant eternity, or for pleasant inhabitants? The thousand-year wait to get into the afterlife should have been your first clue, you dilletante.
    The supper electronic, the feast of neurons and protons, that spectacle will have to wait for another decade. Everything will be there. What you and I need, for the time being, is a good shadow to slither in. No, no, it’s true…I’m not doing this for nothing. You see, I happened to be there. I witnessed it when you began to leak. The sight was a thing of ragged beauty, the type that one rarely finds here. Possession of your memories friend--mind those babies!--possession of your memories is where my interests lay. Yes, the little bastards run thick as desire, I’ve already explained that you can’t be too careful. Mind your step. Always remember to keep clear of these sick generations of animals and babies as they are not what they appear to be.
    Where do they watch from? Nowhere, of course! Do I have to explain everything to you?! I thought you were the knowledgeable psychic in life. How you ever managed to convince thousands of people to invest in you to smuggle their souls--ah, we’ve no time for this. Keep moving, will you?
    “Will you stop bossing me around?”
    Oh. Oh, well, now you have done it, haven’t you? You’ve opened your mouth and given them something to track. Yes, look: here they come now, at least a hundred-thousand strong, the wastrels and lepers and insane infants, the opium-induced nightmare beasts and monochrome tigers. It’s a good job you know how to escape the tidal wave of pursuers cascading down into this valley of flavorless desolation. Oh, of course I’ve time to be flowery now that I’m not being “bossy” anymore. So, you’re ready finally to listen to me? Good. Let us away through this alley, yes, now down this tunnel, which I built especially for this circumstance. What’s that? One of them got at you?
    Look! Look now. Your needs are bleeding all over the place! The squirrels and the hounds will be onto us soon enough, friend. I’m afraid that you’re on your own from here on out. Perhaps it was fate that we separate here, perhaps it was fate that the burden of five-thousand souls overcome you just at the crucial moment, just at the gates of Heaven. And you thought your ability to communicate with the dead was a blessing in life? Ha! I’ll just take my payment now, thank you very much.
    I will concede, I didn’t keep you from being caught forever, but you couldn’t be naïve enough to think you could escape punishment for all eternity. Not that it matters now. At the very least you will be truly in the dark as to the nature of your guilt, and of those who assisted you, after I relieve you of your prior thoughts and memories…I would tell you to give Father my regards if I thought you’d remember. Oh, don’t look like that. Perhaps, in a few thousand years I’ll slip in and rescue you from your torments if things have cooled off by then.
    It’s been a pleasure.
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John Edward Lawson has published nine books, seven chapbooks, and over five hundred works in anthologies, magazines, and literary journals worldwide. He is a winner of the Fiction International Emerging Writers Competition, and has been a finalist for the Stoker Award and Wonderland Award. Other nominations include the Dwarf Stars Award, the Pushcart Prize, and the Rhysling Award. As a freelance editor he worked for Raw Dog Screaming Press, Double Dragon Publishing, and National Lampoon, has edited seven anthologies, and served as editor-in-chief for The Dream People. Recently he became a columnist at IMJ, covering events in the publishing industry.


"The Father of All Torment" originally published in Three Pieces Guaranteed to Rot in Your Drawers
Copyright John Edward Lawson

Scalp Full of Salami by John Edward Lawson

The licking never stops; an interminable slathering of saliva ceaselessly spreads over my body. “Could you knock it off?”

     “In a minute. I’ve got to take a potty break pretty soon for a number seven.”

     “A what?” I knew they were strange, sure, but could they realistically have seven differing bodily functions?

     “You don’t know what a number seven is?”

     “If I did I wouldn’t have bought you in the first place.”

     It withdraws, seemingly hurt by my statement. Strange, these things and their quirks. We’ve conditioned ourselves to say anything and everything to our pets. Now that we’ve saddled ourselves with these new creatures, though, the rules are changing. Who knows if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

     “You oughtn’t be that way with me. I thought we were buddies.”

     “Sure thing. You’re my BestCo Buddy.” It’s amazing, wonderful and amazing, what we’ve managed to achieve through genetic engineering. “Come on, forget it. Have a little salami. It’s on me,” I try to joke.

     Thankfully these things posses an indomitable cheerfulness. Already my Buddy’s six groups of sticky pads begin to shift on my neck and I can hear its stomach growling. Judging from the potbelly it has been cultivating I might want to think about picking up some low-fat salami.

     Mattea is coming my way and I nod my head, careful not to topple my Buddy. “Hey Matty.”

     Mattea waves and I do likewise. Maybe five years ago the clumps of greasy salami in Mattea’s hair would have been seen as disturbing, but now it’s the ultimate class status symbol. My own Buddy clings to my left ear, jockeying for position on my neck. A few dozen meat bits, warmed by my body heat and from an hour of being out of the fridge, are starting to develop quite a strong odor—not an entirely unpleasant one, either.

     It pauses to sniff at the starlight under the night sky. “Mmm…Alpha Orionus.” I still can’t get used to that.

     “So, who should we kill today?” I ask it, pulling out my copy of Playkill Magazine. “The Inmate Of The Month is out of the question. But we can check out the other pictorials.”

     “Seven,” it says. “Just go with number seven today.”

     I peruse the hundreds of screens. “One…four…okay, here’s the seventh one. Let’s see. Reynard. Unity Reynard. Still sound good?”

     My Buddy grunts, trying to speak with its mouth full. “Let me see the pictures.” I let it read over my shoulder and it seems to be pleased. “All right, go for it!”

     “Sure thing…” After a quick scan of my GeneCreds I type in a few commands, and just like that Unity Reynard pops up on my viewer. Poor old frightened, confused Unity. We chuckle and feel a little better watching the convict’s cell slowly fill with sewage until he finally drowns. This fleeting amusement comes to an end with a message from the Penal Department thanking us for our contribution. “Well, that only killed a half hour. Got any other suggestions?”

     “Let’s swing by the deli. I heard they finally released those salami lice.”

     “No kidding! See, that would be so cost-effective. No more running to the grocery store all the time.”

     “Yeah,” it chortles. “I heard they lay a new generation in your hair every twenty-eight hours.”

     I know where there’s a nearby deli that would stock all the latest BestCo Food. “Sounds good to me. Let’s get this show on the road.”

     When I hear my Buddy’s flat teeth grinding away it’s clear that together we’re unstoppable.

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John Edward Lawson has published nine books, seven chapbooks, and over five hundred works in anthologies, magazines, and literary journals worldwide. He is a winner of the Fiction International Emerging Writers Competition, and has been a finalist for the Stoker Award and Wonderland Award. Other nominations include the Dwarf Stars Award, the Pushcart Prize, and the Rhysling Award. As a freelance editor he worked for Raw Dog Screaming Press, Double Dragon Publishing, and National Lampoon, has edited seven anthologies, and served as editor-in-chief for The Dream People. Recently he became a columnist at IMJ, covering events in the publishing industry.
 
"Scalpful of Salami" originally published in Just Kill Me

Copyright John Edward Lawson

Featured Flash!

So I'm doing this FEATURED FLASH thing now.  Posting stuff by other writers whom I like, some of whom are young and new, some of whom you may have heard of.  Sometimes it won't be "proper" flash but poetry or prose-poetry or even song lyrics.  Sometimes it will be dark and serious, light and zany, surreal and mystical, gross and obscene.  But it's all stuff I like and that I think is worth reading and spreading around.

Up coming work from R.A. Harris, J.W. Wargo, Justin Grimbol, CV Hunt, Andrew Freudenberg, Sean Tigert, Shawn Blair, Eric Stoveken, Karl Fischer, Laura Lee Bahr and John Edward Lawson, amongst others.

Not to mention S.T. Cartledge, Mr. Nihil and Edmund Colell whom I have already featured on the Strange Edge.

And my stuff will be sprinkled in there, too. Because I'm selfish and prolific. 

Keep checking back.  I'll be updating a whole lot.