The Story of Geordio's Rooster Flock by G. Arthur Brown

Geordio had a whole flock of roosters. This is not something you find all the time. You can find whole flocks of hens.  Mostly in the trees, which is where they sleep. Easier to find when they are sleeping. Craftier than you might think in the day time.  Seems crazy. Foxes and raccoons are out at night. 

“Fuck our eggs!”  squawked one rooster!
“We don’t even have any fucking eggs!” squawked two roosters!

Geordio, as I said, had a whole flock of roosters.  This was because he was a homophile.  He couldn’t relate to women, even chicken women.  He even got rid of a poinsettia that he thought might be a girl.

I totally told him it wasn’t a girl.  He still gave it to a homeless man, who was very happy about it, until he realized it wasn’t cannabis sativa. 

But the point is, you see a group of chickens, you assume that most are hens.  This was not the case when you came around Geordio’s place.  First of all, he just had them inside, like dogs or cats.  There were nearly twenty of them.  And the shit was caked into his carpet, which wasn’t good to begin with, so that I wouldn’t wear my nice shoes in his house for fear of fucking them up. 

I was at his place one night. 
“Fuck our eggs!” a rooster squawked.

And yeah, roosters can’t lay eggs, but they were laying something that was sort of like golf balls.  If you boiled them down, and then crushed up the residue and snorted it, it got you super fucking high.  We even gave some to that disappointed homeless guy.  He could fly after that.  I’m not sure if he could fly before that, but he did have large wings.  

Copyright 2013 G. Arthur Brown
Artwork Remedios Varo

Before the Last Object is Thrown by R.A. Harris

Tomlinson spun the ultra-pink neon bulb, the final piece of the puzzle, on his finger before tossing it into the mix. It flew after the other objects in a beautiful choreography that only a professional meta-fictional juggling troupe could achieve. Between Eric, Gavin and himself, they now juggled twelve emperor penguins, thirty laptops, tension, the human genome, an orange so moldy it was turquoise, an old Swiss lady, a rabid pregnant television set, a television executive with a gun, smaller versions of themselves juggling even smaller versions of themselves (ad infinitum), a mobile phone, a couple of young spirits, a fluorescent green dildo with a pot of honey flavored lube and the ultra-pink neon bulb. The only thing that was missing was a woman with flaming nipples.

Tomlinson was shocked when the turquoise orange metamorphosed into a miniature dragon. After consideration, he realised that this may well have been a full sized dragon as he hadn't actually seen one before. It wasn't such a surprise to him when its razor sharp wings tore a hole in reality, letting in a collective of parasitic logicians, as he always suspected his world to be made of flimsy material stitched together with frail premises. The logicians flew in like locust, latched onto the soft membrane of reality with terrifying ferocity and immediately began draining logic from its virtual metaphysical processes.

Eric got bored with juggling, which was at odds with his very raison d'être. But given that his entire consciousness would otherwise revolve around juggling, it came across as a development that gave a previously unfathomed depth to his character. It was probably caused by the case of Praxis Illogica brought about by the parasite logicians collected on the membrane of reality like so many ticks, rather than any intention on the part of a Creator-entity. He yawned immeasurably wide.

“When you open your mouth wide like that I can see a black hole where your soul should be,” Tomlinson told him. “Maybe you should get that checked out. You're not supposed to be able to see black holes.” He juggled the pink bulb towards Eric.

Eric stretched his mouth wider, trying to get a glimpse down his own throat. He took his eye off of the pink bulb and it sailed down his gullet. His interior burnt a brilliant neon pink as the sphere imploded into its own negative state just before passing through the black hole.

Once the dazzling light had dissipated Tomlinson risked another look down Eric's throat. “Would you look at that? The black hole's gone.” His voice echoed around Eric's gaping mouth. “But you, my friend, are soulless.” And then, without really knowing where it came from, he added, “Merely an empty vessel to facilitate a world of events far removed from the mundane reality we inhabit here.”

“I'm blind,” Gavin said as he groped around for the soft membrane of reality that held him in place. “It's all pink.”

Tomlinson couldn't help but think that their existence was a mere formality now. No longer able to really call the three of them a meta-fictional juggling troupe, he set about dismantling the dimensions that had been constructed to house their essence. A flat packed Tomlinson cursed it all to hell.

“All this cursing makes me want to go boil a witch,” said Eric.

Tomlinson briefly pondered on the implications of his thoughts being projected so that Eric could comment on them, but just shrugged it off as a glitch in the mechanisms guiding their world, most likely just another symptom of the ontological virus represented by the plague of logicians. He held the deconstructed dimensions out at arm's length because they stank like rotten egg. He pinched his nose with his other hand and hop-stepped over to the tear caused by the dragon, where he tossed them out into oblivion.

Without a structure, the soft membrane of reality cascaded over the troupe like a collapsing circus tent, little bubbles of paradox silently rose from the mess and then popped, spilling antithetical notions and conclusions into one another, making their enunciation redundant. Tomlinson and the others swirled around in eddy currents, transient pools of liquid similarity, before descending into the depths of irreal virtuality like waste down a plug hole.



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R. A. Harris lives in England, a merry land made up inside his head. He writes bizarre fiction and some of it gets published. Go here: www.leakylibido.wordpress.com to see some of his famous flash work.

Copyright 2013 R.A. Harris 

Spineless by Justin Grimbol

Pussy Bear and Cathy sat on the couch and drank their coffee. Pussy Bear hated visiting Cathy. The first floor of her house was a massive salt water pool. Her fur smelled awful when it was wet. But Cathy’s husband was a jelly fish and she had to respect that.

Cathy loved to complain about her marriage. Apparently it was very boring.  “I don’t know what I was thinking marrying this nerd,” she said.

“You loved him,” Pussy Bear said.

“I guess.”

 “And you have that weird fetish for getting stung,” Pussy Bear reminded her.

“That’s true.”

Cathy’s husband swam up to Pussy bear and started stinging the hell out of her feet. The last time Pussy Bear visited the jelly fish stung her so bad that she lost her temper and ended up stomping on the thing and killing it. Luckily, Cathy was in the bathroom at the time. She didn’t see her stomp her husband to death. Pussy Bear then went to the beach and fish up another jelly fish and put it in Cathy’s house before she noticed her husband was gone. This had actually happened on a few occasions. She thought it was strange that Cathy couldn’t tell that the jelly fish that was floating around her living room was wasn’t her husband.

“I can’t stand the way he stings me,” Cathy said. “I’m constantly going to the beach to be with other jelly fish. I’m such a whore.”

Pussy bear assured her that she was just going through a phase. Cathy wept. She threw herself into Pussy Bears big hairy arms. The two women embraced. The jelly fish continued to sting Pussy Bear’s feet. She couldn’t tell if the creature was flirting with her, attacking her or begging for help.


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Justin Grimbol went to Green Mountain College for thirty years. He majored in Partying and Dry Humping. He is the author of DRINKING UNTIL MORNING and THE CRUD MASTERS. 

Copyright Justin Grimbol 
Artwork by Leonora Carrington 

Robots Make Our Food by Shawn Misener

“This is where we suck the skin off the beasts,” remarks the General, pointing to a small white tube dangling from the ceiling. “We coat the mouthpiece with mushroom sauce, and as soon as they wrap their stinky bulbous lips around it... VROOOP! No more skin.”

He leads us over to an electrified holding pen, where several skinned beasts meander, bouncing off one another and yelping squeamishly. The General smiles and points to them with his bone cane. “These are the skinless sows. Watch what happens when I press this button.” He taps a tiny button with the cane and the floor releases, sending the beasts into the void with the force of a public restroom toilet. Rousing applause booms from speakers mounted on the fence.

“Thank you, thank you,” says the General, bowing.

The tiny pink woman touring with me pipes up, “Isn't it the truth, Herr General, that robots make our food? What do you say to that?”

“You bitch!” He sings, pounding the top of her bald head with his cane. “Where do you think you are? Afmenistan? Turkily? This is 'Merica! We invented robots.” Breathing deeply and adjusting his robes, he whistles. The entire facility rumbles upon the grand entrance of a metallic ball the size of a three-story Victorian. It saunters up next to us, and I feel compelled to hop the fence and join the beasts in their doom.

The General laughs. “This what happens when you roll all the robots into one! A Katamari! You guys want some dinner?”

Soda Can: A Morality Play by Sarah Shaw

The man wearing the green shirt tilts back his head and drains the can of Mr. Bubbly Syrup, savoring the last bit of sugary liquid before tossing the purple can on the sidewalk and continuing his walk home. The can lies on the concrete near a recycling bin.
    Mr. Bubbly Syrup, known as Mr. BS to those who enjoy it, is the leading soft drink in America. Its high caffeine-to-sugar ratio earned Mr. BS instant success and popularity when it hit the market in the 1970s. The formula is a well-guarded secret. Armed mercenaries patrol the entry to the vault where the recipe is kept. No one has ever broken in.
    Now, a solitary and empty can lies on the sidewalk. It vaguely senses that it does not belong here, but since it is not entirely sentient, it hasn't a clue what to do about its condition. Mr. BS doesn't notice the color of the sky changing slowly from blue to a deep orange hue. Nor does it feel the droplets of sizzling rain that hit its aluminum body. The bright flash of light that encompasses infinity is also lost on the can. Mr. BS does, however, sense the mechanical arms and legs that grow quickly from its sides and bottom. Like a newborn calf, Mr. BS slowly rises and takes its first wobbly steps.
    The sky is blue again, with few clouds, but Mr. BS sees only green with the metallic eyes it has grown. Driven by what can only be called instinct (or an otherworldly GPS), the aluminum can follows the path of the man wearing the green shirt who had discarded Mr. BS on the sidewalk.
    Green Shirt isn't difficult to find. He's at the front door of a white house with a tiny, trimmed lawn which is a clone of every other house on the block. Before the man can pull his keys from his pants pocket, Mr. BS launches onto the back of his head and chomps through his skull with its newly acquired set of razor-like, metal teeth. The second bite takes the brain. Green shirt is dead before he has a chance to bleed. Mr. BS opens and shuts its mouth rhythmically, pulling in the remainder of the deceased litterbug bite by bite, along with the bottom step of the porch. Since it does not have taste buds and only vaguely notices a change in the resistance and sound reverberations of this new material being crushed between its teeth, the soda can continues to consume the porch, front door, walls, and roof.
    Now, passersby notice Mr. BS as its feast of flesh and building materials causes its aluminum body to stretch upward and outwards, metallic pops and crinkles sounding throughout the suburb. The can now stands at five-and-a-half feet, give or take a smidge. The passersby really can't ignore the sudden absence of the house on lot #3, either. Since human brains aren't prepared to process what these particular humans have just witnessed, they simply stare dumbly at the man-sized, purple soda can as its mouth wrenches open to the size of its body and begins to vacuum up the sidewalk, inhaling concrete and several neighbors. Soon, the entire street is cycloning through the air and into Mr. BS's giant maw. The can has another growth spurt and shoots up to 15 feet tall.
    It leaves the nothing that it has created and arrives at a small commercial district, greeted by screams and screeching tires. Mr. BS takes hold of a white Ford Focus and swallows it whole and then flings an Acura into a convenience store. Mr. BS grows larger with every car, bus bench and person that it devours. The sidewalks that it slurps up add feet to its height and girth and soon a 20-story aluminum behemoth stands amidst nothing. It starts to walk, each step shaking the Earth.
    Mr. BS destroys building after building, city after city and continent after continent until there is nothing. Nothing but the sea and the sand. Still driven, Mr. BS points its mouth downward and begins to suck, drawing into its body the planet itself.


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Sarah Shaw lives in the middle of Alaska where she thinks up stuff and writes it down.

Copyright 2013 Sarah Shaw

Grape Will Be Fine by G. Arthur Brown

 My father had already been slipping into the murky mire of senility even before my mother’s death sixth months ago. As I went through a gray pantomime of motions to keep him, and myself, alive and, more or less, clean, I ignored most of his advice. Why would I take heed, especially at a time like this?

“You need to find yourself a strong woman, Clark. Like a horse,” he tells me. He sits with a bowl of lentil soup in front of a muted television, screening a clips episode of Designing Women, 5^th season.

I’m preparing a soufflé by my mother’s recipe, wishing I had paid more attention to everything she told me about cooking. The simple instructions on the note cards do not convey the intricacies that are needed to appropriately cultivate something as refined and French as a cheese soufflé.

“Those waffles smell delicious. Been a long time since I ate a cheese waffle.”

“It’s a soufflé, Dad.” I begin to cry into the dish, torrents of tears and mucus. This doesn’t look like my mother’s soufflé, even less so now that I’ve waterlogged it. Waterlogged, like my life.

“I ruined the soufflé, Dad.” I wipe my face and yank myself back together.

“What are you going to do now, Clark?”

I have no idea what I’m going to do. My last hopes of getting my life back on track sits gloopily in front of me, mocking me with its inedibility. Defeated by food. But I need to say something, so: “I’m going to buy more cheese, I guess.”

He shuffles into the kitchen with a mostly empty soup bowl that he tucks into a sink brimming with dishes. With a hand on my shoulder, he says, “Oh, Clark. Sometimes cheese isn’t the answer.”

For a minute, I listen. Perhaps he’s got a point. My life is not as simple as a ruined soufflé.

I ask, “Do you think there is an answer?”

He wanders over to the stove. “If you are going to the store for cheese,” he says, as if he didn’t hear my last question, “can you pick me up some Pepsi?”

My heart slouches a little. “Sure, any particular kind of Pepsi you’d like?”

He arranges some dirty dish towels on the handle of the oven. He smacks his lips and says, “Grape will be fine.” 

Copyright 2013 G. Arthur Brown

Painting by Carlo Carra

Lady Looks Like a Dude, But is Really a Dude Trying to Look Like a Lady By Jimmy James Pudge, M.F.

Irene had a beard. She was a bearded lady in a sideshow. But Irene had a secret. She was really a man with a little pee pee named Eddie.

Eddie was tired of working in the fast food industry. He hated the smell of meat and French fries on his clothes. So he decided to wear a dress, grow a beard, and become a sideshow attraction in the Travelling Sideshow.

Today they were in Panama City, Florida, and Eddie decided to go to Dipping Dots before the show started. People stared at him in his green dress as he ordered the rainbow flavored dipping dots. He paid for the dipping dots and sat at the table eating his dipping dots. The dipping dots were good and ice cold, and he enjoyed putting the little dipping dot beads in his mouth and sucking on them. He called them his miniature balls.

When he was finished with his dipping dots, Eddie decided to go to Alvin’s Island and buy some souvenirs. He saw a bunch of alligator heads and this made him sick to his stomach. How horrible people were to kill such poor and defenseless creatures! Oh the fucking cruelty of humanity! Oh the horror of it all!

Eddie decided to buy a small alligator head and put it in his trailer. He was about to walk out of Alvin’s Island when this thug approached him and asked him why he was wearing women’s clothing.

“I’m a bearded lady,” Eddie said, his high-pitched voice cracking.

“You ain’t no lady,” the man said. “You ain’t no goddamn lady.” He put his hand between Eddie’s legs, but he couldn’t feel anything because Eddie was fat and his stomach sheathed his dick.

“Gee, I’m sorry as a motherfucker,” the thug, said, removing his hand. “You want to go behind Alvin’s Island and fuck in the woods?”

“Sure,” Eddie said. “Let me just pay for this alligator head.” Eddie bought the alligator head, then followed the man outside. “Lead the way,” Eddie said.

The man grabbed Eddie’s hand and led him into the palm trees. Eddie looked behind him and saw they were out of view.

“Give me your fucking wallet,” Eddie said, pulling a pistol out of his panties. “I’ll shoot your dick off.”

“Wait a minute,” the thug said, clearly confused. “I thought we was gonna fuck or something.”

Eddie shot him in the dick and took his wallet. He opened it up, but there was no money inside. What a waste of time. He tossed the wallet at the moaning man and headed back to the sideshow.

Big Barney the Muscle Man was drinking an Ensure and waved at Eddie when he walked up.

“Hey Irene,” he said. “Check this out.” He flexed his biceps.

“That’s really groovy, Big Barney,” Eddie said.

“You know, I think you’re cute, even though you got a beard,” Big Barney said. “You don’t see the beard once you get to know what a beautiful girl you are on the inside.”

“Thanks Barney,” Eddie said, blushing.

“Hey, no problemo, baby,” Barney said, finishing off his Ensure. Barney drank a lot of Ensure.

Eddie went inside his trailer and took his dress off. He was really sweaty. The Florida sun was very hot on his hairy body. He sat naked in front of a fan and let the fan blow air on him. He smoked a cigarette and checked himself out in the mirror. His weight gave him great breasts, but his thighs looked terrible.

There was a knock on the door, and Eddie hopped up off the bed.

“Irene!” a man shouted. “Irene, you in there bitch?”

“Just a minute,” Eddie said, putting his dress back on and opening the door.

“Irene, we got a problem” the owner of the sideshow said.

“What’s that?” Irene asked.

“I was peeping in your window and couldn’t help but notice your dick when you were pissing in the toilet.”

“Oh my goodness,” Eddie said.

“Yeah, the jig’s up, bitch. I know you’re a man.”

“So, what are you going to do?” Irene gulped.

“It depends on what you’re going to do,” the owner said. “You can either get fired or bend over that bed and let me stick it in you for a few.”

“That’s horrible!” Eddie said.

“That’s the way it is,” the owner said. “You’ve been a naughty bitch, lying to everyone like you have been. You deserve a good dicking.”

“Who else knows I’m a man?” Eddie asked.

“Not a damn soul,” the owner said.

Eddie whipped out his pistol and put a hole in the owner’s head, fragments of the man’s skull and brain shattering the window. Eddie looked up at his ceiling. Blood was on it. He didn’t realize blood could fly so high.

“Irene!” came a loud voice from outside the trailer. It was Big Barney’s voice.

“I’m okay, Barney,” Eddie said as Big Barney kicked the door open. It fell off its hinges and flew a couple of feet in the air.

“What happened here?” Big Barney asked.

“He. He tried to rape me,” Eddie said.

“Oh, Irene,” Barney said, hugging the bearded woman tightly. “It’s okay. Shh…hush up that crying. It’s going to be alright.”

“You think anyone else heard the gunshot?” Irene asked.

“No. I don’t think so. Most people are on the other side of the camp, prepping their stalls.”

“Good,” Irene said, pulling a knife out of her panties and plunging it into Big Barney’s chest.

Big Barney’s eyes got wide. “Irene,” he said, “why? Why did you do this?”

He fell to the dirty floor on his back. “I loved you.”

“Is there anything I can do for you,” Eddie asked.

“I’m so thirsty,” Big Barney said, coughing up blood. “I’m so thirsty. Jesus, I can’t see anything. Rub your luscious beard against my face so I know you’re here.”

Eddie rubbed his beard on Big Barney’s face.

“Good. Goog,” Big Barney said, coughing. “I’m so thirst. Please, can you get me some Ensure. Just one last bottle. Chocolate, not Strawberry.”

“I don’t have any Ensure,” Eddie said.

“Check my pockets Irene,” Big Barney said. “Check my filthy fucking pockets you bearded whore.”

Eddie bent down and checked the right pants pocket. He pulled out Strawberry and opened it up for Barney. “Here, motherfucker,” Eddie said.

Barney took the bottle and drank deeply. “This is strawberry,” he said. “Fuck me.” Then Barney died.

Irene was sick of the sideshow business. That shit was stupid.

Eddie grabbed a can of gasoline. He started dousing the trailers with gas and lit them up. Then he left.

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Jimmy James "M.F." Pudge was born into this world on 6-9-1979 in a truck stop toilet at a TA Travel Center in the backwoods of South Georgia. An honest and conscientious man, Jimmy served several prison sentences because he refused to give in to the federal laws that impose independent spirits' rights to be entrepreneurs. An expert in the art of pruno, shank construction, and paper dart blow guns, Jimmy briefly served as a leader in his dorm room before being released early for good behavior.  He has blogged, and might one day blog again at Much Love with Jimmy Pudge.