torture THEN kill, are you dyslexic?

“. . . hotter than a summertime crawfish boil.” Thelma and Frank retired to the back porch trying to escape the heat from the kitchen. She liked to sit on the screened in porch and look at the picture of her late husband Delroy Jenkins that she kept above the door. “Alaw that man was a stallion,” she bellowed out to Frank who had run back inside to help himself to a fresh bowl of beer. “How in Jesus' name can you swallow that filth, it's hotter than a possoms poop hole". Even though she knew ...

“. . . hotter than a summertime crawfish boil.” Thelma and Frank retired to the back porch trying to escape the heat from the kitchen. She liked to sit on the screened in porch and look at the picture of her late husband Delroy Jenkins that she kept above the door. “Alaw that man was a stallion,” she bellowed out to Frank who had run back inside to help himself to a fresh bowl of beer. “How in Jesus' name can you swallow that filth, it's hotter than a possoms poop hole". Even though she knew ...

The Divorce Setting : A seaside house in Japan A small room. An old man sits on a large bamboo mat. In the background a raging sea can be heard crashing into a mountainside. In front of the man on the mat is a large pitcher of sake, a small glass, and a small plate of sushi. In his hand he twirls a pair of chopsticks. The room is lined with thin rice paper walls. There is candlelight from a shrine coming from the wall behind him, on the wall to his left is a small window. In the front left co...

Last Flight To Brooklyn Mary always had trouble getting started. To say what she wanted to in a letter was tacky—she knew that there was an alternative way to end things—but goddamn it, she told herself, this is the only way that it’ll work. Any other way left too many possibilities, too many questions that could arise after fourteen years of being together. She didn’t want to see that inevitable look in his eyes, that blank stupid look of his. Fuck him, she thought. This is what he deserves....

Meatflower “MY VAGINA IS DRY!” the poet screams from the dark, smoke-filled stage of the Whiskey Horse Saloon, the small town of Forum, South Carolina’s only bar. In the audience they sit quietly, wondering how long she will go on this week. He looks to her, she to him. “MY VAGINA IS CRYING!” She takes his hand in hers and pulls it into her lap. She leans over to whisper. “MY VAGINA GAVE BIRTH TO THE WORLD!” He leans in to hear her over the poet, but he forgets what she is saying as he begins...