Arachnophornication

​  Jedediah Pinkeyeton sat deep within his labyrinth, his web of trinkets and detritus that was his obsession. His grisly features painted a haggardly bleak portrait of a man grown geriatric despite his relative youth.

  His neurosis delved deeply into the realms of full-blown kleptomania with a splash of sociopathic disconnection in human empathy. A true virtuoso of larceny, deceit, and grave robbery.

  He hunched further into his phonebook, his bulbous nose dribbling yellowish mucus upon the rows of digits, and names. Cadaverous fingers drew psychedelic swirls, like ancient hieroglyphs mingling amongst the little lives, and the putrid snot. 

 His finger stopped suddenly. The spider had chosen his fly.

             ***

  Encapsulated Swarovski crystal nails slowly clicked down in waterfall succession. The rhythm thrummed like a heartbeat mandra, explosively loud despite the drone of her metrosexually ambiguous executive assistant/yes-man. 

  Jeanine Cho scoured the wanted ads. Delighted by the perverted, and blatantly intended adultery transparently advertised in neat little bingo boxes. Delicious free-range sinners, cataloged alphabetically for her enjoyment.

  Her sycophantic secretary paused apologetically to answer an incoming call.

  “Miss Cho’s office, how may I assist you?” he intoned by rote.

  “I’m sorry, but she is currently in a meeting. Would you like to leave a message?”

  Jeanine picked up her office phone and fatally jabbed the button for line one.

  “Thrill me.” she quoted her favorite film.

  “Miss Cho, I presume?” said a cancerous voice.

  “I’ve exactly zero time for games. Get to the point.” 

  “I want you. I will have you tonight.” the man cackled. “And there’s nothing you can do to stop me!”

  A slow smirk curled Chanel lips into a haunting rictus of corporate beauty. The black widow was pleased. 

                    ***

  Jedediah skulked in the shadows of the VIP booth at his favorite pretentious goth bar, Club I Bleed Black. He watched the writhing bacchanal as it rolled in and out with the tide of music, and too-expensive booze. His quarry would be here tonight, he could feel it in his bunyans.

  Jeanine entered the club as if she owned the place, which she did, so it made absolute sense. Club I Bleed Black was a sort of long standing social experiment. It was her hunting ground, her hallowed web of sin. 

  Jedediah glanced up from his cranberry juice and froze at the picturesque widow standing defiantly before him. Eyes met and sparked a deep seeded cognition that they were kindred. They both felt it immediately, and neither could deny it.

  The gibbering gentleman standing just behind Jeanine begged to differ. His straight razor cast a gleaming arch, thirsting for sanguine arterial kisses.

  Jedediah launched himself at his query. 

  Jeanine desperately dodged the two men, reaching for her .357 derringer.

  The muzzle flash was blinding in the candlelight, burning the erotic moment into memory. Jedediah strangled the life from the cock shot fiend, grinning madly as he did. Jeanine leaning down to finish him with a kiss.

  Together they consumed the man’s soul, and at last they knew love.

Published on the New Bizarro Author Series website. For more spider sex mini-fiction, go check them out!

The Regular

A man walks into a bar.

He has a face like a Mr. Potato head if you were to somehow shove a brick up its ass and make it really angry looking all the time.

Sauntering up to the bartender, he slams a canned-ham fist full of dollars down and mumbles something incoherently low in a voice like broken glass.

The barkeep nods and takes the waded lump of cash gingerly to the register.

“Drinks on the house!” The meat man bellows, to the astonished delight of the surrounding patrons.

The room quickly empties in an avalanche of drunken flailing limbs, all scrambling for the stairs leading to the roof.

“Works every time.” Says the grizzly man, sliding into his favorite booth.

Write Hard:

Write every single day.
Write when you’re on the toilet.
Write when you’re bored.
Write until your fingers swell and your eyes bleed.
Write novels, novellas, short stories, flash, micro, chapbooks, zines, articles, blogs, longhand, and on beer coasters.
Write in public, or in private.
Write to live.
Just write.