Harvesting Brains Pastoral by Shawn Misener

The sky is red and violent and the skinny farmer digs up brains with his shovel.

      Pitching them from the earth they shriek in Morse code. A bawdy secretary languishes behind the farmer, translating the squealing gray matter and scratching her rectangular nose obsessively.

     As each rusted wheelbarrow fills with minds a donkey appears and slouches away with the load. "Fourteen thousand eight hundred and twenty seven" counts the secretary in whispers born under the prairie wind.

     Somewhere behind the far distant trees a monstrous fog horn bellows. Both the farmer and the secretary vanish in identical puffs of heavy dust, leaving behind brains strewn around like so much neglected cauliflower.

     A vacuous, slow moment.

     Then a new farmer appears, the atmosphere popping violently in his arrival, followed by another short-skirted secretary, her glasses askew and eyes cocked in confusion.

     The second shift begins when the farmer scoops his first brain. The sky reluctantly shades from maroon to a painful deep purple, the clouds wrench themselves into loose threatening coils, and the secretary bends an elven ear towards the multitudes of pleading encephalitic vegetables.


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Shawn Misener lives in Michigan.  His chapbooks include Dry Humping a Fire Hydrant and In Your Face(book), and he edits the absurdist blogazine Clutching at Straws.


Copyright Shawn Misener
Artwork by Leonora Carrington

Movie Review: Sherlock Holmes is Going to Beat You Up

You thought you just had to look out for Gov. Schwartzenegger? Now Sherlock Holmes (Morton Downey, Jr.) is also coming to beat the stuffing out of you.  He wants to split your seams with his steampunk/New Victoriana menace.

All in all, not a bad film especially when you consider that director Guy Ritchie has allowed his wiener to touch Madonna.  For some reason, Algernon Blackwood finds himself to be a villain bent on turning the world black with magic in this strange adaptation. Keep in mind, I was on heavy doses of vitamins when I saw this film, and a young street urchin stole all my notes, but I’m pretty sure that I remember Jane Adams playing Mata Hari.  Judith Light turns in the performance of a “light-time” as Prof. Watson, the elementary school teacher that Holmes is clearly in love with, but it is the kind of love that Guy Ritchie feels for his adaptation of this classic tale, not the kind of love you should feel for your teacher.

(Originally posted like a million years ago on KnifeFightingJesus.com)

Transsexual Meth Addicts with Marshmallow Eyes by G. Arthur Brown

On the fifth afternoon on Mars X we were attacked by three transsexual meth addicts with marshmallow eyes.  This was my tenth encounter with these bizarre creatures.  Glegman, our science officer, had struggled to explain why they had marshmallows for eyes.  But we had come to accept that, though there was probably an interesting back story there to make some sense of it all, we would probably never know. It was more important to identify their weaknesses.  They averaged 6.75 feet in height, 200 pounds, with astonishing strength for long term drug abusers. The marshmallow eyes seemed to function like an insectoid composite eye, gathering a wide spectrum of input, but not particularly good with fine details, so we were fairly sure they could not read our names printed on the top left of our shirts, above the Space Force insignia.  I felt our anonymity would remain to our advantage in this skirmish.

Jackson’s head was wrenched from his shoulders before I could say, “Holy Hell, Sergeant Thomas K. Jackson, that big transsexual meth addict with marshmallow eyes is coming right for you, probably to rip off your relatively normal-sized head!”

Jackson was the last one with a functional lazerzap.  The rest of us, in the off hours, had jammed our barrels full of dirt as we made sketches in the topsoil.  “Art is for fags,” Jackson had said, and even at the time I knew he was making a wise decision in not using his weapon as a drawing stick. On the other hand Leon had done a rather good likeness of Pope Lexander the Fabulous, the first openly gay man in the papacy.  Everyone seemed to really enjoy gazing at this work of art, save Jackson, who merely shook his head at the image and polished his long, hard gun.

Now, Jackson’s headless corpse heaped itself conscientiously well clear of the action. Out of other options, this left only Jarro’s ass bees.  While shitting in the woods a few weeks prior, a strain of alien rape bees had decided to make a nest in his ass. Luckily, Jarro was psychic, using his uncanny telepathy to communicate with the tiny bugs.  He learned to unleash them at will. But they were generally horribly pissed off about the whole matter.

Pulling down his trousers, a line of ass bees fled the man’s rectum like they were sick of being cooped up in his fleshy shit tube.  The largest transsexual meth addict, whom I presumed to be their queen, swatted at the bees with both nail-polished man-hands and her horse tail, causing his/her DDD breasts to bounce about uncontrollably, crushing Leon’s skull. And I had just warned him about standing too close to trannies earlier in the day.

The skinniest of the transsexual meth addicts with marshmallow eyes, using his/her incredible erection, hoisted Jarro into the sky and catapulted him in a massive arc. The body landed with a crunch, bouncing limply before coming to rest.  I wanted to cry out, but my voice had left me.  Then his body exploded in a giant ball of flaming, sentient robotic dicks, capable of fucking anyone--male, female or tranny--to death in a matter of seconds.

“I’d just like to take this moment to say that I always knew space exploration was a bad idea.  I suspected that I would wind up dead at the hands of horrible creatures, the likes of which are never seen on a sane and rational planet like Earth.  If only I would have had one last chance to kiss my mother,” I didn’t have time to say before I was swallowed into the queen’s glistening anal gape.

He/she was fucked to death in a matter of seconds by the flying mechanical fire dicks as I suffocated, vindicating me once and for all.


Copyright 2013 G. Arthur Brown
Artwork Remedios Varo

Bus to Blackridge by Alan Gardner

‘The fuckin’ cunt was just lookin’ at me, know wit a mean?’

I nodded, trying not to commit. In these situations it’s best to be blankly diplomatic.

‘Aye, so then as wiz like “the fuck’s he lookin’ at me fur, eh?’

He lit a fag and pocketed my lighter. I saw the driver glance at us in the mirror. He said nothing. Why invite more aggro into your life?

‘Blackridge cunts like me dinnae take shite aff nae cunt.’

He laughed and coughed up a little green globule of phlegm onto his sleeve. He wiped it away and continued.

‘So the cunt’s no getting’ away wae that. Wid you let some cunt pure stare at ye like that, wae yer fuckin’ burd right there anaw, mate?’

‘Probably no, mate.’ I laughed, as if I understood the code, and had taught it to more than one.

‘Aye, see, you know the fuckin’ score, this cunt didnae, but. Ah wiz like, “fuck the cunt!”, eh?’

There was a creeping tension, the other passengers, mostly old folk, and another guy who had had the sense to keep clear, who were trying hard to appear deaf or somewhere else, were transmitting that tension. Or perhaps I was sending it to them and they were then condensing it and sending it back. Maybe it was just my heightened sense of awareness, animal instinct. You know these situations can turn. I said just enough, and responded where necessary, trying hard to be very pro neutral.

‘Wit would you dae if you were me, mate?’

‘It depends…’

‘On wit?’

It could turn here, I thought. ‘Depends if the cunt wiz bigger than me ur no, eh?’ I laughed.

He laughed too. ‘Yer no wrang. Still, widnae matter a fuck tae me. Ah’d jist fuckin’ plant wan on um. That’s wit Ah fuckin’ did tae. BANG! Right on the cunt’s fuckin’ jaw!’

He was getting more and more worked up. He was spinning out to a thread that could snap at any moment.

‘Ah’m a schizophrenic by the way.’

Think. ‘My uncle was in Bangour with something like that…’

‘Fuckin’ Bangour, Ah wiz there fur two year. Fuckin’ slashed wan ay they cunts anaw.’

Do not ask me his name.

‘Yer uncle, aye? Ah’d probably ken the cunt, kent aw they cunts up there. Wit wuz e’s name?’

‘John Henderson…’

‘Auld John? Aye, Ah ken the cunt. Fuckin’ raped a wee lassie that cunt!’

‘Must be a different John Henderson…’

‘Gie’s a light again, pal, eh?’

I feigned a quick pocket search along with surprise and a smile. ‘I think you’ve still got my lighter.’

‘Oh, sorry, pal, so Ah huv tae! Aye, cannae put fuck all past you, eh?’

‘Just keep it, mate. I’m getting off soon, plenty lighters lyin’ aboot in the hoose.’

‘Getting aff in Whitburn?’

‘Aye.’

‘Fuckin’ slashed a cunt fae there anaw. Right on the Cross, cunts never got me fur that either. But that’s a different fuckin’ story. The cunt thit wiz lookin’ it me, Ah punched um right in the pus. Fuckin’ doon he goes. Ken wit Ah did then?’

‘What happened?’

‘Fuckin’ pished aw ower the cunt! Wiz fuckin’ burstin’ tae! Funny hing is Ah’d shagged e’s burd the week afore, maybe that’s how the cunt was giein’ me the fuckin’ daggers. Fuck um though, eh? Wee soft cunts like that deserve tae get thur burds shagged oot fae under thum!’

‘Hope you have a good weekend anyway…’

‘Ah ALWAYS huv a good weekend! Ah’m away hame tae get pished an’ shag the burd!’

I got off and watched the bus to Blackridge splutter up the hill, hoping that the slasher’s next victim would be the other guy who’d had the sense not to give him a light.

---
Alan Gardner lives in Scotland, where he does many things.  You may remember him as Bad Albert, if you happened to stumble across his Youtube channel back in the day. 

Copyright Alan Gardner
Artwork Remedios Varo

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

I Won the MegaSuperLotto by Douglas Hackle

A few weeks ago I won the MegaSuperLotto.

The jackpot was $932 million. I had the only winning ticket. It was the largest lottery payout to a single individual in the history of lotteries.

A few nights prior to purchasing my ticket, the winning numbers—1, 20, 34, 72, 84, 94, 98—were revealed to me in an über-fucked up nightmare in which I had doggy-style sex with my sister at a Motel 6 in Detroit.

Okay, I’ll come clean: The nightmare was a tad more disturbing and complicated than that. In it, my big sis had my dad’s head, my mom’s arms, my grandpa’s legs, and my baby brother’s kidneys (I could not see the kidneys, of course, but as I was the semi-omniscient host of this nightmare, I was privy to that knowledge). And if all that wasn’t fucked-up enough, my dad’s head was screwed on backwards to the body, so that his face stared back at me with big, wet eyes of glaring condemnation throughout the entirety of the perverse sex act. As I subjected the Dad-headed, hybrid family-thing to my ungentle thrusts, I was repulsed—nay, sickened to the very core of my being. I longed to pull myself off the monstrosity, to run as far away from that motel room as my dream-legs would carry me.

But at the same time, part of me did not want to pull away.

And that was perhaps the scariest thing of all.

Then, just before the thing climaxed, the Dad-head croaked those seven winning lottery numbers to me in the raspy, throat cancer voice of my grandma, and I awoke with a start.

Anyhow, I didn’t know it at the time, but the federal tax rate on lottery earnings in the U.S. was 347.46%. That meant that I owed Uncle Sam a staggering, completely unpayable $323.8 billion! And I also didn’t know it at the time, but a recent amendment to the U.S. Constitution stated that a lottery winner’s refusal or inability to pay federal taxes on his or her lottery earnings was punishable by death by firing squad.

***

When they executed me, one of the dozens of copper-jacketed .30-30 rounds that tore through me penetrated my skull and just so happened to strike my basal ganglia—a bundle of neurons situated near the center of the brain. In addition to other neural functions, the basal ganglia is involved with perception of the passage of time. I died more or less instantly; however, due to the specific shape, velocity, temperature, and direction of the bullet that obliterated my basal ganglia, my subjective perception of time was vastly distorted in that final instant, so that the moment of my death stretched out like a wad of chewing gum. To be specific, from my point of view, it took me approximately 378 years to die. Now had that same bullet hit my basal ganglia just a nanometer to the left or a micrometer to the right, or had the bullet entered my skull at a speed that was a few millimeters per second slower than the speed it actually did enter, I might have experienced a more or less normal, instant sort of death. Then again, perhaps my death would have been stretched out even longer. Who the hell knows? The human brain is infinitely full of quirks.

Anyway, point being my death sucked. Big time.

Now I’m a ghost. And upon further reflection, considering I’m a ghost, and considering that as a ghost I’ve permanently left all worldly affairs behind, I might as well come clean—come clean for real this time.

Here goes: Remember that nightmare I said I had? Well, it wasn’t a nightmare.

Not only is that Dad-headed sister thing real, it’s my next of kin. Which means not only did the thing inherit my MegaSuperLotto winnings when I died, but it also inherited the tax burden on those earnings.

As a consequence, the Dad-headed sister thing is scheduled for execution by firing squad tomorrow morning.

***

I wonder if we’ll find each other here on the dark, misty-purple plane of the spirit world. If we do meet again, I wonder if our incorporeal, quasi-ectoplasmic forms will be able to engage in sex. Of course it goes without saying that the very notion of such an unspeakable, depraved reunion repulses me, sickens me to the very core of my spectral being, but still I wonder.

Okay, I’ll come clean again: Part of me does want that unspeakable, depraved reunion to take place.

And that’s what scares me.

Okay, okay, alright, alright, I’ll come clean one final time: My desire for that unspeakable, depraved reunion doesn’t scare me at all actually.

That’s because I want to fuck the shit out of that fucking thing again.
 
That thing is fucking hawt.
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Douglas Hackle writes lobsters that are bizarre, surreal, satirical, horrific, macabre, veiny, vainglorious, childish, moronic, or some combination of these qualities. His lobsters have seen publication in both online crabs and printed manatees. Douglas resides in Northeast Ohio with his wife and little boy, and he sincerely apologizes for using the phrase “lest you order seven fetal marionette pizzas” four times in the previous sentence when one time would have been just as sufficient.

Visit him at: http://douglashackle.wordpress.com/

Copyright Douglas Hackle
Artwork Leonora Carrington

The Seaman by Darrin Naill

When the only thing one has to fend off a swarm of moths is an arm broken off a lawn jockey (sans hanging lamp), it is best to swing fast and wide and round. Up and down motions usually end making a knot on the forehead (which is precisely what happened). The glancing blow causes staggering, which in turn allows the moths entrance into the small closet where, over time, a few of the items hanging in said closet will be damaged. Living in the closet, hunting down the dozen or so moths is the task of a mad-man. So, with water bottles and Chex mix in hand, the hunkering down began.

Not knowing what attracts moths (aside from the clothes already hanging in the closet), it is best to sit still and breathe little, match and candles in hand, and wait for the fluttering. And then it's simply a matter of match/candle/moth...poof!

If the telephone rings, it is not a good idea to panic, strike a match to see how to get out of the closet, inadvertently igniting a spilled oil lamp that was clumsily knocked over by the homeowner. It is also not a good idea to climb into the window of a dark brick rancher, chasing the moths that were to blame for ruining the old wool coat of the sailor admired by many (or perhaps just one) who died just a week before when a yard jockey fell upon his head while the sailor was bathing.

Also, do not try to fight fire with clothing. Naked, charred remains will be all that will be left.

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Darrin Naill. 70s born, father of 3, husband of 1. Eater of meats and cheeses. Hunter and Fisher; general killer. College degreed, yet employed at a bargain. Acquainted severally, friended fewly. Bourbon.

Copyright Darrin Naill
Artwork Leonora Carrington