Cervical Worm Flood

Truth lies in the etchings of enamel, product of rootless wives and grifting mothers.

A movie made for a goof makes dad happy. His tidepool smile tells the story of our future.

Putting me in your mouth, you squeeze police car lights into the room.

Kitchen Sluts!

A hard gray flame in the object, which is an imitation of a person's head, makes a cool sound like dried sponges rubbing together fast. It was donated to the school by a Realtor® who owns a local pub.

The pub's funky barkeep bakes a special sort of a soup cake called a Blouse Pump. Selling them at the community farmers market, she makes enough cash to pay stripe licking hunky fellows to tinkle on her sister, a person she despises!

In the cold brick school, future netizens engage in a cruel masquerade. Dramatic brat fights occur daily, and it is only a matter of time until the fake guy's head is damaged. Repair will require not only the proceeds from the sale of hundreds of Blouse Pumps, it will necessitate less contract pissing in the name of revenge.

An Incredulous Witness

In view of the bizarre happenings in our world today, we advise tympanic communications sneak messages of mild affection and prudent disdain. In the boat-like dwelling, a heliophilic wise lady who knows a lot about mycelial response to human emotion sneaks her own special spice into the groveling routine of immature craftsmen.

She is the mother of four daughters, who refuse pleasure whenever the opportunity presents itself. Clutching their excised toes to her chest, she sings a pretty lovely tune to herself, and to her unseen watchers.

She has a vivid imagination and will live this way, steeped in unprovoked malice, until the neighbors intervene.

Aching Plumes of Garlic

Last night, a family experienced a looping convergence of tick dreams, spiraling iterations emerging from the psychic navel

Mother saw the tick with the gear-marks on its back, beached like a whale on the edge of the estate's central retention pond

Father felt the sucking of the fist-sized tick on his back and felt his skin orgasm and soften, embracing its passenger, providing refuge

Brother sat side-saddle on the herd's tick runt on the ash plains, his eyes protected by name-brand athletic goggles

Sister's hot tick sandwiches provided a free and nutritious lunch to schoolchildren experiencing poverty

Rapid boil ticks in hydrogen peroxide

Methane Smackers Whisked Hard

Out under the yellow horizon, a door leads to the calm. Revolving, sheathed utensils seem to serve as a kind of prize — unwelcome, perhaps, but certainly foreign.

Welcomed thusly, the fear rises in strong jazzy throbs. Supposedly, a key is hidden in the pavement. I fail to find this fact charming. The royalty show no signs of life and I honestly don't know what they are.

Illusory machines exhibit a structure heretofore unobserved, vaguely heretical, intensely aggravating. So no one here knows amusement or follows procedure. But their eyes swell with lust regardless.

Jonathan Slabflippers

I cough cheap linoleum perversions into this retail crypt. The webs dissolve, speedily!

Flat phallus clocks sponge up the conversations of the clerics below. They're laminated by their own aerosolized saliva. I don't know how that happens.

The clerics collect their wages from the radio administration, enough for a humble meal of celery lint and cabbage rolls. My curse, apparently botched, is forgotten.

Fields of Familiar Traumas

Pimples of light in the black face of the sky and the moon like a kaleidoscope's tongue: gently throbbing with stored secrets. The whistles from the surrounding vegetation seem to give names to the sky's scars.

In the bag at your feet, some hot screaming candies shaped like fisted cones begin their inevitable sublimation; the vapors escape their containment and enact their brutal fantasies upon your flesh.

You strip the tacky film from your face repeatedly, to no avail. I'm deeply apologetic. I should have warned you about the candy.