In Fiction on April 1, 2016 at 3:54 pm
If your hand causes you to sin, cut if off. It is better for you to enter life crippled than with two hands to go to hell, to the unquenchable fire. Mark 9:43
Erich Klinger fought on the Eastern Front and paid his dues, and earned himself an Iron Cross First Class and a Black Badge for the Wounded. He dried his face. Note the chin, the lower lip: he rarely spoke. He insisted that he adored the scurrying creatures of the Black Forest as well as the sublime complexity of tornadoes or labyrinths. Do not be fooled. I have yet to understand his role in the surgeries: whether he himself injected twins in the eyeballs with methylene blue, extracted their hearts without anesthesia, opened their rib-cages like a cabinet and took the whole organ out entire as if it were sacred like the heart of the Savior. I asked him about the 5th SS Panzergrenadier Division, how he got promoted to the rank of SS-Haupsturmführer, yet he would not tell me. All we have of his past is this photograph. Clad in black from hat to boot, with three pips and two lightning bolts on the unit insignia on his collar, he looks like a Prussian king.
In Fiction on April 1, 2016 at 8:31 am
PHARAOH’s general, the Scorning Master of the Evil Eye, and a brazen-shouldered army of a hundred men, thundered towards Hermopolis, in attack formation—gesturing towards the sky, with knives, copper cudgels, throwing sticks, and battle-axes—beneath the Autumn sun. “Avenge the name,” one warrior cried. “Yes, the name,” another cried. “Take his head, his ba, his shadow, his son—O, we seek him—we must kill him for the name!” All was in disarray on the eve of the Mysteries. Set, the god of evil, gloated with the army’s movement, with their anger, as they clambered onward, towards the City— he, who once stood, befuddled, before the Balance, on that Great Day; having plucked out the Eye of Horus and constructed disreputable evils against Osiris, lord of death, of resurrection, brother to Isis, sister-mother of the gods.
In Fiction on March 31, 2016 at 4:53 pm
It was us against them—them against us.
In the beginning it was us.
We were in a motel room off Pico on Halloween, where a meth fogger bloomed out of a Black tranny’s lips, while the tranny’s John, who was on parole (and was half the tranny’s size) kept point through the bent, dusty Venetian blinds, holding onto his own glass pipe, as my girlfriend (all legs), the tranny’s John (some lost soul in Hollywood.), waited for a N.F.L. sized Black linebacker named Bubba G (who, with no fear in his eyes) knocked on the door and showed up with 5000 dollars of our cocaine that he had, in fact, (in hindsight, obviously), been cut with Anbesol, with Jasmine, the Black tranny, probably a half an hour before the exchange even took place.