Tuesday, October 18, 2011

11:11 IN SKINHEAD CITY by Dustin Reade

So I am running full bore and I get right up there and jam my knee into the crotch of the grand wizard of the KKK. The world applauds, I bow, and now I am a reality TV star. The whole thing is caught on national television and now there are two thousand angry skinheads pounding at my door. All of them throwing little "Heil Hitlers" into the air. Some of them are wearing t-shirts with a skinhead on the cross. The skinhead on the t-shirt has no face.

I look around and realize that none of the skinheads have faces.

There is no way of describing the terror I feel.

So I grab my broom and I throw open the door and I start swinging the broom to the left and to the right like I am trying to scare raccoons away from my garbage

The skinheads retreat and most of them look scared even though some of them have weapons. Weapons like: a Q-ball in a sock, a lock on a chain, half a pool stick, etc.

I start to worry they might kill me for thud-crotching the wizard on national television so I try to act crazy. I grab one by the neck, and start whipping him around in the air like a towel in the wind, all the while flailing the broom to the left and to the right in my other hand. I let go of the limp skinhead and he crumbles like a pile of laundry to the ground. I grab another one by the arm and start screaming in his face about "borrowing my last pencil". I want them to think I am crazy, dig?

They get the message and they scatter.

I look around at the carnage left behind. It is massive.

I notice a brown patch on the lawn where several skins have urinated against the side of my house.

"Jerks," I say.

I go inside and catch the tail end of "Oprah". It’s an episode with Dr. Oz.

I like him.

DEAD END by Jake Johnson

The signs jut up from the hot sand.

They beckon me closer with their disarming faces. When I get close I see the blood dripping from their teeth.

I run. They say to me,



and I think about it and then I don’t.

I’m not in the desert anymore. I’m in a metal room with a doorway and a sign that says,


“But-?” I begin.


“You think I’m right?” I ask, honored.


it rushes me. I nod and run through the doorway.


Witchery is a weird, yet wondrous pursuit. How do I know? Well, for the past few years I’ve been closely associated with an adept practitioner of the arcane arts, both as a helpmate and an observer.

Wanda even taught me to speak, as much as that was possible with my rather limited capability in that department. Mostly I rely on thought projection like I’m doing right now. I hope somebody out there somewhere shares my neurological wavelength. Are you listening? I thought you were.

With my unique perspective, perhaps I can shed some light on Wanda’s eccentric activities. (I’m rather good at shedding, if I do say so myself.) Now, where should I begin? Well, first of all, she’s...

Oh, darn! There goes that annoying whistle again. You didn’t hear it? I’m not surprised; the frequency is so high-pitched not everybody does. I wonder what Old Snaggletooth wants me to fetch for her this time—her slippers, the TV remote, her magic wand? She’d better be careful about letting me sink my fangs into that last item. I may be mostly Scottie and Irish setter, but I’m also part Pointer.

CONFESSIONS by Cheryl Anne Gardner

"What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas," replied Satan as he leaned in to place the angel atop the tree. Its wings were made of tin foil, and they crinkled in the hot breeze, so he reached out a little farther. The ladder teetered slightly, swayed slightly more, one hoofed foot thrown out to gaiety the other navigating the flaming abyss below via the uppermost step. You wanted to say something, anything at all, but the small hairy midgets kept handing you martini glasses full of tomato juice and black olives. You see, that hotel room had become a prison cell, and Elvis your Rabbi, reciting the last rights in a white leisure suit, all swinging hips and patent leather shoes. You had gone there alone, a tramp, hitchhiking the desert roads drawn like a firefly to the hypnotizing twinkle of oppression. Had gone to shake your moneymaker for any lunatic with a nickel, but your box wasn't a jewel box and the shiv in your hand was nothing more than a shattered piece of glass wrapped in a bit of tin.

"What did you expect, girl?" Satan asked of you again, his voice cocooned in nectar. "Did you think you'd like it better here? I read your diary, so I know. I know you. Nothing makes any sense to you anymore, not like it did when you were in France, when you kissed that woman twice your age. She barely had a pulse, and you, a loaded rifle and a cheering crowd. So hand me the tinsel ... and have another drink. ‘Tis the season's eternal down here."