Archive for the ‘Fiction’ Category


August 4, 2011 Leave a comment

My vein, so delicately bluish-green, splits open so easily, with but a single touch of a razor.  And out of it, equally delicately, comes a slow-spreading trickle of red. Viscous, almost frozen, the red spreads. Like molasses on a chilly autumn day.

The truth, here, is discursive, not literal.

That reminds me of a story once told by Harland Williams to a group of people assembled somewhere east of here, a story that takes place on a chilly autumn day, when he was sitting at home; and just as he – making himself comfortable on his old, worn-out couch in front of his old television set – just as he slit his vein with an old-fashioned razor blade, so shiny and new, just as blood started to pour out of him, slow like molasses on a chilly autumn day, he noticed some movies he had forgotten to return to the video store. What a bummer.

Sew sew sew. Quickly, before both the big and the little arm are on twelve. Or else: late fees.

Life, at times, is nothing but avoidance of late fees.

Categories: Fiction

Beauty and Beasts

July 16, 2009 3 comments

Jethro Tull - The Broadsword and The Beast [1982]She moves past me with aged grace, but her body shows only the latter.  I shudder and think of my rotund shape.  She winks at me and smiles, reading my thoughts.

“Come ‘ere, fat boy,” she coos, and for some reason I think of my zombie-obsessed friend; but it’s only a momentary lapse of attention.  Her body draws my focus and I forget to blink; my eyes get dry quickly and start to tear up.  “Don’t cry.  I was just kidding.  You ain’t fat.  Come ‘ere.”

I move slowly towards her and she hugs me close to her, breathing into my face, her coffee-breath reminding me of the smell of dog feces.  Her chest is pushed up against me and I quickly push her away, wiping the tears from my eyes.

“You ain’t fat.  You’re just big —”

“Fuck off,” I interject.  “I know I am not fat.  And it doesn’t matter, anyways, Margaret,” I say emulating Dennis the Menace, “because I am happy.”  She recognizes the reference – of course she does; she always does – and assumes the role quickly, without blinking an eyelash.

Grabbing me by the nose, “Tough kitty-paws,” she ejaculates and drags me to the ground.  I sit down docilely and smile.  And she sits next to me.  Slowly, she lays me down on the floor, and takes her place next to me.

“Would you have ever imagined, when we just met, that this would be us, so many years later?  Thirsty for one another?”  She slips her hand into my pants and starts stroking me slowly.  My eyes are closed and she breathes into my ear.  I smell a faint odour of dog feces again.  “Hungry for each others’ bodies?”

My mind tries to wander, but her body grabs it firmly and will not let go.  “Would you have ever imagined?” she coos, and once again, my mind starts to slip away, but her tongue finds its way into my ear and, penetrating my skull and my brain, refocuses my attention.  She kisses me and I shed a tear.  My eyes are not dry this time.

She is wearing only a skirt, no panties, so it’s relatively easy for her to get on top of me, pull me out of my pants, and slip me inside her.  I moan quietly, and she smiles a devilish grin.  “You’re all body now, aren’t you?  And you hate it!  Let loose, for fuck’s sake,” she orders me.  And I obey, for my own benefit.  And a Jethro Tull song plays in my head, but only for a second.  Sliding off of me, she slips me into her mouth, quietly whispering, “Tastes good,” and I am all body.  And all I can do is laugh.  Rejuvenated.  I am all body.

After it’s over, she moves away from me with aged grace.  But her body shows only the latter.  Nailed to the floor, I lie with my pants around my ankles, a ridiculous image for curious eyes.  I hear the water running in the bathroom and my body sings a song,

Hello you straight-laced lady,
dressed in white but your shoes aren’t clean.
Painted them up with polish
in the hope we can’t see where you’ve been.
The smiling face that you’ve worn
to greet me rising at morning —
sent me out to work for my score.
Please me and say what it’s for.
Give me the straight-laced promise
and not the pathetic lie.

Tie me down with your ribbons
and sulk when I ask you why.
Your Sunday paper voice cries
demanding truths I deny.
The bitter-sweet kiss you pretended
is offered, our affair mended.
Sossity: You’re a woman.
Society: You’re a woman.

All of the tears you’re wasting
are for yourself and not for me.
It’s sad to know you’re aging
Sadder still to admit I’m free.
Your immature physical toy has grown,
too young to enjoy at last your straight-laced agreement:
woman, you were too old for me.
Sossity: You’re a woman.
Society: You’re a woman.

Categories: Fiction

Ms. Dickinson, the Pale

June 26, 2009 Leave a comment

Emily Dickinson [1830 - 1886]

The pale face stares at me from the picture, delicate, sallow, wan, beautiful.  Death domesticated.  Death beautified.

I get aroused by the thought of death so lovely, and her eyes speak to me.  Title divine is mine / The Wife without / The Sign.  Speak again, o deathly pale face: One need not be a Chamber—to be Haunted / One need not be a House— / The Brain—has Corridors surpassing / Material Place.

The pale face stares at me from the photograph, more than a century old, beckoning.  And I acquiesce, embracing her fragile form; stroking her black hair, tightly tied behind the head; my hand moves up – across the ribs; ribs whose shape is delineated through the skin, through the meagre flesh – moves up to her small breasts, to the tips of her breasts, cold and hard with time.

She exhales slowly: this time, it is she who acquiesces.

The pale face stares at me from the picture, delicate, sallow, wan, beautiful.  Death domesticated.  Death beautified.

Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves—
And Immortality.

We slowly drove—He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility—

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess—in the Ring—
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain—
We passed the Setting Sun—

Or rather—He passed Us—
The Dews drew quivering and chill—
For only Gossamer, my Gown—
My Tippet—only Tulle—

We passed before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground—
The Roof was scarcely visible—
The Cornice—in the Ground—

Since then—’tis Centuries—and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses Heads
Were toward Eternity—

Categories: Fact, Fiction

Jethro Tull

June 16, 2009 Leave a comment

The bearded old man sits on the ground, barefoot, picking the sores on his feet.

“Aqualung,” I mutter underneath my breath and – sensing I was talking about him – he looks at me and smiles his toothless, crooked smile.  I look away.

“I was a lad once, too, ya know,” he says.  In his hands he clutches a copy of the St. Cleve Chronicle dated January 1972 – I can’t really read the day, it’s too small, too blurry – his nose is running.

I hand him a handkerchief and he eyes me and smiles.  “Thank ye,” he says.  I nod and start to walk away.

“Meanwhile, back in the year – one,” he shouts after me.  “When you belonged to no – one!  You did not stand a chance – son!  If your pants were undone.”

“A rhyming bum,” I think, and laugh.  And he sees me laughing and he laughs.

I walk away, humming the long forgotten song my father taught me.  “Really don’t mind if you sit this one out…”

Jethro Tull – Thick as a Brick – Madison Square Garden [1978]

Categories: Fiction

Big Whiskey & the GrooGrux King

June 5, 2009 Leave a comment

Big Whiskey... I grew from Monkey into man, he said. From Monkey into man. But as he was saying it, he seemed not to be sure whether he made the right choice of verb: ‘grew’? He seemed to want to say ‘shrank.’ But nevertheless, he said ‘grew.’ From Monkey into man.

And then what? I asked.

Then I crushed  fifteen million with a wave of my hand, he said; I grew drunk on water turned into wine, he said; ‘Til I was Slave and Master at the same damn time. His nostrils flared a little, and his eyes glistened. A bead of sweat formed on his forehead. He inhaled deeply.

His mother was a witch; his father a man – at first. Until his mother turned him into a rabbit-like creature with features of man. Pink skin, human eyes and teeth, long furry ears atop of his head. That’s when they fell in love with one another. A witch and a rabbit-man.

Yet he came out a normal human child. At least he appeared to be normal.

It’s why I am, he whispered into my ear; It’s why I am.  Why I am still here dancing with the GrooGrux King. And he smiled at the look of confusion on my face.

I met him not so long ago. He was sitting in the street, alone, petting a pot-bellied pig that was resting in his lap. He smiled when I looked at him and said: His name is Groucho.

Out of my head and into the room! Hello!

By now, I was used to his outbursts. So I chuckled and petted the pot-bellied pig still sitting on his lap. Good Groucho, I said. Good boy. The pig grunted with pleasure as I was stroking his belly.

A King of Man: It makes no sense! From outside, the sound of a bass drum came thud-thud-thud-thudding into the room.  And he continued, When I bow to the Priest while I worship the Witch.

He turned to the pig, and holding the pig’s head in his hands, looking him in his eyes, he continued rapidly, without breathing, its why i am always the one to make you smile its why i am still a snake in the woodpile why i am still here dancing with the groogrux king.   And after a short pause: out of my head and into the room so when my ghost takes me from you you can remember the fool that i am dont cry baby dont cry.

... and ...

The band played outside: some kind of Louisiana racket that reminded me of cajun nights of  a few years ago. Heat, spicy food. Breasts. Sex in dark corners, away from prying eyes. The smell of sex and seafood in the air, making my senses ultra-alert; my cock rock-hard; my hair stand up on the back of my neck. Joy and terror at the same time.

It’s the lose and the win of the world, he continued more slowly, looking away from the pig and at me. Wrong and right, us and them of the world, the you and the me of the world, only one way out of the world.

He cried a single tear, reminding me – inappropriately – of Johnny Depp in that John Waters flick. Fuck.

It’s why I am unlikely to agree, it’s why I am climbing out of my monkey tree. I chuckled. Why I am still here dancing with the GrooGrux King, he said and smiled. Crying more than one tear this time. It’s why I am the apple of your pretty eye, he said, turning back to Groucho. The pig oinked thrice.

It’s why I am a snake in the woodpile, he repeated, looking back at me; Why I am still here dancing with the GrooGrux King. ... the GrooGrux King

The sun shone down at us, and the summer breeze blew as if it had never stopped throughout the history of the world.  The music outside continued, and he tapped the rhythm with his right foot.

And? I queried. And then what? How does this end?

He petted Groucho.

Out of my head and into the room, he yelled. So when my Ghost takes me from you, you can remember the Fool that I am.

I smiled and shed a tear.

He smiled too. And getting up, he started to walk away slowly, Groucho tottering behind him.

Don’t cry baby, don’t cry, I heard him singing to the tune coming from outside.


Categories: Fiction

Thus Spake … I?

May 24, 2009 Leave a comment

I have spent the last two days locked in my basement – literally; eating chips and drinking pop (mostly Jones cream soda), which I had stashed away there in the last week or so, I’ve lived in beautiful isolation.

The Nemesis had agreed not to bother me for forty-eight hours.  I sometimes heard her moving about above me, in the forbidden upper regions, but I believe she had kept her movement to a minimum in order to allow me forty-eight hours of solitude – physical and aural.

What I did is of no great importance, but I’ll tell you several things of the many.

Firstly, I’ve mostly lived in the dark.  The basement has only one tiny window, and not much light comes through it.  Other than the light coming from the computer monitor, I’ve also tried to keep the artificial light to a minimum.  I’ve pissed and shat in a bucket I’ve kept in the corner of the basement covered by a large slab of wood.  The smell was slightly unpleasant at first, but I quickly got used to it, and after the first hour or so, did not notice it at all.

Secondly, I’ve not masturbated at all.

Thirdly, I’ve been looking at beautiful images I found on several blogs you can now find on my blogroll.  Here’s one from Golden Age Comic Book Stories:

Frank Frazetta's Tarzan [1972]

I’m becoming a little obsessed with what we may term ‘pop’ or ‘low’ art and its relationship to ‘high’ art.

Fourthly, I did not learn any profound lessons from my isolation.  Other than that isolation does not lead to any epiphanies; it does not lead to any transcendent truths. Of course, unlike Zarathustra’s, my isolation was below ground, and that may have impacted the outcome.  Zarathustra’s tale starts so:

When Zarathustra was thirty years old he left his home and the lake of his home and went into the mountains.  Here he enjoyed his spirit and his solitude, and for ten years did not tire of it.  But at last a change came over his heart, and one morning he rose with the dawn, stepped before the sun, and spoke to it thus:

“You great star, what would your happiness be had you not those for whom you shine?

“Behold, I am weary of my wisdom, like a bee that has gathered too much honey; I need hands outstretched to receive it.

 “I would give away and distribute, until the wise among men find joy once again in their folly, and the poor in their riches.

“For that I must descend to the depths, as you do in the evening when you go behind the sea and still bring light to the underworld, you overrich star.

“Like you, I must go under – go down, as is said by man, to whom I want to descend.

“Behold, this cup wants to become empty again, and Zarathustra wants to become man again.”

Thus Zarathustra began to go under.

I woke up in the dark again this morning and walked up to the level where Nemesis rules.  She had breakfast prepared: eggs, bacon, sausage – poods of sausage – which I ate with relish.  And then, stout.  As dark as the night.

No profound lessons for me: I cannot enlighten the masses like Zarathustra did.  But I will refer you to another blog, entitled simply Sex in Art, where you can find some fabulous images, one of which is this:

Sex in Art

Stay healthy and eat well, my friends.  I must sign off now, as the Nemesis is making me “get off [my] lazy ass” and do some shopping for the house.  After all, the fridge won’t stock itself.

Categories: Fiction

Mr. Dog and the Mechanical Hydra

May 16, 2009 Leave a comment

I was born, and the majority of my childhood was spent, in Eastern Europe.  In that part of the globe so many of us in the West perceive as somehow nebulous and shadowy.  In that part of the world some of us may imagine as one of those “blank spaces on the earth.”

Well, that shadowy place was, indeed, penetrated by rays of civilization, “like a running blaze on a plain, like a flash of lightning in the clouds,” and we poor shadow creatures bathed in it.

Nemesis was and is the product of a somewhat different nebulousness.  Of a somewhat different shadowiness.

But that – as they say – is neither here nor there.  Especially not there.

But when I was growing up, one of those ‘rays of civilization’ that reached us lowly beings was a grotesque little piece of artful entertainment entitled Dylan Dog, created and sometimes written by Tiziano Sclavi and illustrated by a number of different artists two of whom – my personal favourites – are Corrado Roi and Angelo Stano.

I grew up reading Dylan Dog, and now – as you may already know – the Hollywood machinery has gotten its tentacles on this most sublime of grotesques.  Now – credit must be given where credit is due – Hollywood does not always destroy all that is dear to us; in the last few years there have been some interesting and inspiring adaptations of great novels, of great comics.  But I am so invested in this particular comic that I fear for its health.  On the other hand, I hope that North American audience’s exposure to it via the mechanical Hydra that is Hollywood will bring the comic to the North American market, and that more than the seven (already-published) issues of it will be published in the foreseeable future.

Dylan Dog - Vamp [Roi]Image taken from Love Train for the Tenebrous Empire

Don’t fail me, oh mechanical Hydra: I fear you and offer sacrifice to you in expectation of nothing but pure horror:

Anything approaching the change that came over his features I have never seen before, and hope never to see again. Oh, I wasn’t touched. I was fascinated. It was as though a veil had been rent. I saw on that ivory face the expression of sombre pride, of ruthless power, of craven terror – of an intense and hopeless despair. Did he live his life again in every detail of desire, temptation, and surrender during that supreme moment of complete knowledge? He cried in a whisper at some image, at some vision – he cried out twice, a cry that was no more than a breath.

Categories: Fact, Fiction