Ginger and Poop

A handsome tourist with medical training is preying on people living in the caribbean paradise of Metro Atlanta. Brent tantalizes the captives by lying. Brent’s mind has been polluted by cartoons and illustrations and his experiences of being murdered in the beach town of Boca Chica. A literary genius hiding a secret misconception about being a criminal. To his credit, he reaches out to the roughest but most ambitious one armed traveler current in today’s use of slang and hip dialogue.

Exit Stabs

As the hectic world suffered, notorious gangsters provided a protective shell of everyday corruption. As they got older they ended up in a Spanish Primary school and died. Then they created many traumatized shadows. There was nobody left in the village called Kintbury. Their best friends' hobbies and interests include greeting Her Majesty the Queen whenever she noticed their weakened, quivering roommates.

Skank's Evacuation

I was the first policeman who is also a playwright having written, among other plays, two plays about a nostalgic trip on an old train. Over a paella and a glass of Rioja, I prevent the cats from sleeping. 

Dealing with the challenges of eating is not so easy. One challenge after another seems to prevent me from discussing a recent burglary.  The cats will be guilty of nefarious murders.

Whizzers and Brass Buckets

People who experience interesting and exciting encounters are often scrutinized and called grayish creatures. I can recall high school, where a little boy named Charles and the alien learned to write poetry. Clowns exterminate the enemies of alien existence, blighted by hostility and lies. Scientists are quite in the dark about their origin.

A Southerner's Oral Secretions

Glittering Fistula

There's a grandeur in our twisted romance, a doomed glamour. You slap my face and spit in my food. I invent florid insults, precisely engineered to dig into your deepest anxieties. In our ruin, we dance around each other, blades in our quivering fists, fingers clenched so tightly that their very tissues have merged and hardened. Occasionally, we blindly manage to make contact, slicing.

Years hence, when we have fallen to the ground and lost our eyes and tongues and the vital essence in each of us has leaked out and commingled in the parched soil, our final resting place will be marked by a wretched tree. 

Our flesh freed from the disintegrated muscle and bone dust inside, we will be found by a curious wanderer who will mistake our flesh for an ancient scroll, our lacerations as a story written the glyphs of a lost language.