“GAGG” by GRANT MAIERHOFER

You lose an absurd weight, you become and, frankly, I worry. Today we can give the venous injection to you. But do not forget the fact that important thing eats despite your feelings here and now. I listen to the few things and… I must not eat do not want to pass over what kind of line although… just. Becomes. You the body scoop out sit afternoon all through with the needle. To spill the arm, and when bends the body and the people sound to be removed is audible, to be cursed with the behavior. Really, to that place. No, no. I think that the interest goes. Through the necessity which is unconscious will hold you from you from the memories which still sit before your mind drifts making a dream. When the dream started improving after their first stuporweeks, your mind your dream to believe firmly, your dream measures a perspective to, any more as the place which is an enemy. It is not real, not the fact that reached, is very. I must think as the existence attention person. Completely me, appears to be being normal.

 

The room shifts with pleasantry.

 

We giving to each other about task and aim of the family do to be very simple, and does not reach with that more than. I most respected their house and when although, I moved to that place, I almost had sold everything immediately. I can buy the articles which got in year sufficiently made the space: Several hundred books (almost like exactly there are these, I reading and loving, and I will like) with I am being divided. Continue reading

“55 REMAKES” by BIG BRUISER DOPE BOY

Remake of The Matrix that’s security cam footage of me drunkenly breaking into a Best Buy and passing out with a VR headset on.

 

Remake of Memento where I’m stoned in a room trying to remember what I was talking about.

 

Remake of Batman where I walk around at night in a cheap mask hitting cops in their ribs and shins with a bat while shrieking dementedly.

 

Remake of Life of Pi where I fall off the raft and drown in the first 5 minutes and the rest of the movie is a 2-hour shot of the ocean.

 

Remake of Bloodsport where I spend an hour and a half trying to do the splits and rip open my taint and bleed out on a gymnastics mat.

 

Remake of Say Anything where I show up uninvited at my father’s funeral holding a boombox over my head playing “Hippa to da Hoppa” by Ol’ Dirty Bastard. Continue reading

“THE REPUBLIC” by USERCORPSE

Box

Box began work on The Republic at that time in a young man’s life when he wanders too far and tries to trace back to his roots. But can’t find them where he left them. So he starts digging holes. Still none found, he resigns to digging the holes deeper and into the shape of his missing roots, and casts a concrete mould of a past; “Must’ve rotted. Pretty sure they were here.”

Box is Dutch, Protestant, and American middle class. Digging said three tunnels through time, he struck the Dutch Golden Age thrice. Examining it, he found it was not just a coincidence of his making, but a serviceable model of his world, and one he was personally connected to (if only by concrete). Wasn’t that what he was looking for?

The huckster OhK once comforted Box through a time in the land “too far”. His muscles so ached without will that he let an OhK YouTube ad play, finish, redirect to the whole of its advertised video, and finally kick off a whole playlist, all as he peered out from the wrappings of a chilled blanket. Continue reading

“ARCHIPELAGO PART 1” by ERIK STINSON

That beach was north. So far north, the ocean was cool all year. In Orion’s first memory, he’s on that cut of coast in eastern Canada, maybe ten years old. He’s trying to walk the sand. It’s so wet and heavy, every direction feels impossible.

Others cross the beach. He remembers the collective mood of terror. Exhausted bodies washed up from a missing wreck miles offshore. The coast guards were gone, busy fighting Chinese pirates fishing farm cod.

The wind of a passing storm had blown them to land. Orion’s foster parents explained later that he was part of a group of migrants, people from far away looking for a new home. Continue reading

“BLUE-SHIFT” by RYAN SILVA

The torsos of two tangled teenagers tangoed with torn titanium. The sweaty smacking of skin and sultry sighs of satiation only ended after the rent-asunder husk of the Alfa-Romeo Giulia stopped spinning. Bringing down my shaking hands from the steering wheel, I unclasped the metal flask velcro’d to the inside of my satin jacket and took several long gulps of the elixir inside. It’s gin, tonic, a dash of lime juice and the dissolved remains of 11mg of Xanax. I took a deep breath and turned back to my clients, spread out in the back seat — still stark naked. The girl was slumped up against the rear passenger door, completely spaced out, looking outside the tinted window above her. Something had cut her and she was bleeding from the shoulder — not profusely. The boy was sprawled out across the middle of the car, fondling his minimizing member and grinning greedily.

“I love this.” He said, his chest heaving. He ran a hand through his red hair, twisting his curls and then letting his whole arm sink across his wiry frame.

“I love you.” The girl said to no one in particular, her eyes glassed. The stream of blood from her shoulder had already managed to slip down her minute frame, and it was now mixing it up with the jet black hair that covered her small, round, breasts in a biblical fashion.

“Did something in the car hit her?” I asked the boy, curious about how far I’d get with these two drug-addled drive-by-death-seekers. I’d have to leave a call to Tom Anderson, the fellow who procured these cars for the company. The interiors were supposed to be properly reinforced to withstand 124mph head-on collisions. The front-end fianchettoing was purely cosmetic.

“Nah, I fuckin’ bit her, man.” He said with a sickly self-satisfied smirk. Continue reading

“RED-SHIFT” by RYAN SILVA

Down It went — direct, sans demur — descending as if determined by doubtless deities. On the palace’s poolside patio, a picked selection of patrons puckering lips on Perrier spritzers perused the parabola of the projectile dematerialize into the pink horizon point.  Murmurs manifested throughout the mansion as the missile disappeared from view. The reaction of the soiree’s host, M. de Kuhn, was a simple stretch of his supremely ambivalent expression into a subtle smirk.

I had the opportunity to watch the whole affair from the patio’s private mezzanine. The gasps, the booster’s disappearance into the desert scrub, and the angular, severe face belonging to the angular, severe body of M. Martin de Kuhn, whose eyes were squarely laid upon me in his dashing dinner suit.

“Did you want to visit Cyrene tomorrow?” He asked, lifting an eyebrow.

I reeled at the suggestion rather reflexively, but I did my best to remember the advice of my editor, Tony Bactria of Wire — “go anywhere he wants to go, agree to anything he wants you to agree to.”

Wire is Silicon Valley’s premiere tech magazine. Prior to this, I was a one-time contributor. Now I’ve got the fancy title of “Guest Editor”. A month ago, I had written an article of sorts on my own personal blog called “40 Years of Vaporwave 2009-2049” that one of Bactria’s associate editors, Mara Wesley, enjoyed and syndicated on their entertainment sub-vertical, ArtWire. The site traffic app recorded 3516 hits. ArtWire averages 750,000 hits a day. It appeared on Election Day, when no one on the country is reading musical sub-genre retrospectives. I had been jobless that month. Continue reading

FROM ANALECTS: ABYSS SEQUENCE by R

Actus Impurus

The Abyss was a map of its digressions from its essence, an infinitely broken chain of its being, a labyrinthine passage from its right path, a misshapen and impossible sphere that contained itself within its all-embracing circumference, alongside a dim image of its centre in the distance.

 

Cosmological Argument for the Existence of the Abyss

The Abyss, a thing of seemingly absolute complexity and infinite contradiction, was that of which nothing more confusing could be imagined, and from which our slightly less confusing and contradictory existence must thus have descended.

 

Contraphatic

Analogies of the Abyss are true only in their imperfection in illustrating the Abyss, for only that which is false to coherence is true to Abyss, and thus it is only by misleading and deceiving that this sentence can be true to the Abyss.

 

Tunc motu vitae suae intellectivae in se descriptum reperit quod quaerit

The Abyss, which was absolute imprecision itself (or at least so in language, in which it was almost always described imprecisely), baptised the mind in immeasurability itself when the mind delved into measuring Abyssal things, and then emerged from itself somewhere in the imprecise distance.

 

Abyssinia

A peculiar feature of Abyssinia is its tendency to make minds marginal in their imagination of its landscapes: to make the mind an incongruous caravan in its visualizations of Abyssinia. Continue reading

“A MATTER OF TASTE” by MATT LEE

Through the bulletproof glass, I gave the man my order: two-piece fried chicken with a biscuit, the cheapest item on the menu.

I pushed a few wrinkled dollars into the tiny slit at the bottom of the window and the cashier took it without saying a word.  He rang the order into a beaten register then disappeared to the back.

Stepping aside, I leaned against the wall, which was sticky with grease.  I scanned the adjacent wall, studying the various framed photographs and certificates, old write-ups from long defunct magazines, advertisements promoting the latest and greatest chicken-based consumables.  I had not eaten all day.

One photo in particular caught my attention:  A famous rapper wearing the same emblazoned uniform as the man who had just taken my order.

It seemed the famous rapper had grown up in the surrounding projects, grim and ancient hi-rise block apartments, row after row of cheap brown buildings where the dealers sheltered from the hawkish gaze of the mobile police watchtowers that were posted on every street corner. Continue reading

“TROPISMES” by MIKE KLEINE

The anthropologist appeared in late July, when the sky was still a cornflower blue & the earth rumblings had stopped. He ate escargots & spoke of published books & of academic lyfe & provided instruction on how to become a better person.

The anthropologist also did this thing with his h&s.

He drank whiskey & smoked Djarum Blacks & said things like, “White Cube is something new & wondrous that will never happen again.” The anthropologist would pause & then continue, “Because we are in an important moment in time right now, where limitations & regulations cannot affect the kind of world-changing work we are doing, literally, the sky is the limit.”

After that, the earth rumblings would come back for a little bit, but with less frequency. At night, the anthropologist would recite poetry & sleep by the pond & play guitar & spend the better part of his days photographing plant lyfe & investigating rock formations near & around the White Cube construxion site.

But not once did the anthropologist take a picture of White Cube or anything around White Cube. Continue reading

“ASCENDENCY” by __________

‘I think ill go w/ the boneless’

Brendan let out his characteristic half-ironically forced mirthful/spoiled child smile. ben was livid. Buffalo wild wings offers its wings in two forms: boneless and ‘normal’(?), the ‘boneless wings’ being basically nuggs. Ben thought the normal wings were clearly the correct choice, chicken is pretty gross in general, what with being selectively bred to be unable to walk/experience lifelong inflammatory rotator cuff agony via outsized pectoral hypertrophy, processed in rural Mississippi by a 5’1 honduran man of deep mayan peasant extraction, a mammalian maize weevil with repetitive stress injuries, but nuggs are so obviously un-’food’ like, almost deliberately nostalgic in their artificiality, their very ‘extrudedness’ harkening back to a golden age of junkfood when ‘better living through plastics’ wasnt yet a cliched dystop-ism. Ben thought about saying something like that to his friend but instead he decided to call him a fucking faggot.

Brendan’s aforementioned smile morphed into an exaggerated grimace, losing none of its strained smugness. The fine lines on his forehead became more obvious. Brendan was severely balding – nw3 with definite crown thinning. A few grey hairs sprouted conspicuously from his unkempt ‘side burns’ (if you could call them that). Nasiolabal folds were becoming noticeable in even flattering lighting, and his undereyes were baggy and weathered. Norwoodcel, facecel, telomereshorteningcel – he was 23 years old. The rest of his friends laughed. A few of them also called brendan a faggot. Another couple defended the boneless wings. Continue reading