Trying something new:

On my current work in progress I had written myself into a corner, and for a good couple weeks I didn’t know how to get out of it. I had set up a duel, but didn’t want to write the standard sword fight. I wanted something weird, and funny. Then it hit me. Rap battle! Hipster Rumpelstiltskin vs. woke mistress of the Void in a rap battle to the death! It made me giggle just thinking about it. Then I wondered how well rap would translate to book form (I.E: without music), followed by the realization that I would actually have to sit down and write it. I’ve never rapped before in my life, nor do I listen to modern rap. So who the eff am I to write this?

So I started doing research. YouTube can be a great resource for writers if you don’t mind sifting through it for those little nuggets of gold. I watched everything from home video rap battles to the professional Epic Rap Battles of History. Finding my inspiration, I started writing. Just a little bit every morning at 5am. Some days I’d manage to find my flow, some days not so much. It’s super challenging writing rap. I have a lot more respect for talented rappers now, even though I don’t always agree with the subject of their music. It’s a lot like writing poetry actually, or at least it is for me. The difference is that I have to rap out loud to be able to hear the flow. Can you imagine me sitting in my living room at 5am rapping to myself quietly so I don’t wake my kids? It’s hilarious if you know me.

It has also helped my depression immensely to get over my writers block. Some days (like today) I only manage to get a couple lines down, but that’s better than nothing. It’s an accomplishment. It’s something. I can already tell this story is going to be a slow burn, but I think the idea is funny, and worth writing. I hope I can capitalize on a manic phase soon. Get some real writing done, like a supercharge. I’m definitely excited to be trying something new. It’s neat getting out of my comfort zone as a writer. I think that’s how good art is made. I hope I can live up to that.

Araneae Ex Amore Vindictae

​  Rigoberto the recluse waited patiently for the giantess to pass him by. He fantasized about sinking his fangs into pudgy kankle meat, filling flesh with his necrotizing poison. Anger demanded retaliation for the destruction of his mate, and their sack of spiderlings. His entire brood slaughtered in one foul spray of bottled arachnid-death. Fury seethed behind his many eyes.

  However instinct was a fickle mistress, and his need for survival outweighed any dreams of revenge. His chitinous loins burned for another mate, another chance at procreation. Every fiber of his tiny body yearned for the shivering release that fertilizing bulging sacks of freshly laid eggs would bring. Rigo was one horny little spider. 

  He scoured the exterior of the giantess’ abode, first looking for another recluse, then lowering his standards to other less attractive spiders. He crawled, climbed and delved, but he couldn’t find one suitable mate. It was maddening, to think that the giantess had wrought such a genocidal holy war against spider kind, and left him to die alone. 

  Perhaps inside the giantess’ stone nest there were other survivors such as him, alone and afraid, and more importantly, desperate for copulation. Beggars can’t be choosers, after all.

 Rigo entered through an open window, hugging the shadows within until he was safely hidden beneath the hulking plateau where the giantess slept. He searched the bedroom, then ventured out into the labyrinth of the gargantuan home. 

  The home was infested with a plethora of insects, all of whom insisted that arachnids had been obliterated long ago. Rigo sampled a few of the more delicious looking prey, slurping as he interrogated their kin. They seemed unperturbed. 

   He returned to the sleeping giantess’ chamber. Thunderous snoring grated upon his spider soul, that she could slumber so soundly when his very existence dangled from a broken web, awoke a lustful rage within him. 

  Silently Rigo crept up onto the bed, pausing in caution as the giantess choked on sleep apnea. 

  “¡Espero que el estrangulador a la muerte en su saliva maloliente, Puta!” He hissed, traversing the valley of her legs.

  The foreboding cave at the valley’s end belched forth noxious gasses, a grim warning to any foolish enough to dare traverse its putrescence. Rigo entered without hesitation. 

  Deep within the slimy depths he found it, an egg delicately attached to the bloody uterine walls of his new horrific home. Procreation was inevitable. 
This story was featured over at the New Bizarro Author Series website. For more spider sex stories, and much more cool stuff, go check them out!

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!

Chain Smoking At Bus Stops

​  Garry lit a cigarette.

  The man standing next to Garry wrinkled his nose and gave him a sideways glance.

  Garry lit another cigarette. Now holding two in one hand, he took a slow drag from the cancerous twins. The smoke executed a tactical/surgical/preemptive strike deep within the nasal passage of the stranger, engorging his ire. This was war.

  The stranger’s hand ascended, as if in slow motion or some inebriated gypsy’s wild premonition. The hand shook, nearly vibrating with the telltale sign of incipient alcoholism. Withdrawal tremors masquerading as adrenaline shakes. 

  Garry lit two cigarettes and added them to the party. The four coffin nails dangled from his moistened lips, taunting the stranger.

  Spider-like, the hand climbed until it reached the razor-burned jowls of the stranger’s horrifyingly mundane face. The face attached itself to the head, that in turn attached itself to the neck, that attached to the body, that attached to the arm, that attached to that quaking fucking hand, that attached to five dainty little digits. Fat digits. Like a big baby. 

  The baby digits cup the mouth, and so began the great spiral of hand to mouth to hand again. Forever into infinity. One could become lost in that spiral. One could go mad.

  Then came the cough. That annoyingly rude “I don’t really need to cough, but I’m going to anyways to teach you that smoking is bad for you, because you obviously must not be in on this ubiquitous little factoid, are you? Are you, Billy? Huh? Well are you??” -kind of cough. You know the one. That fucking judgmental non-smoker cough.

  Garry lit up three more cigarettes. Now seven little cherries burned brightly from between long piano fingers. Bluish smoke hung in the air between the two men, thick enough to cut with a knife. Thick like marmalade. 

  The stranger turned a frowning, pinkish face to stare directly at Garry. Garry and his seven repugnant cigarettes. 

  Garry lit up another five cigarettes. Now he had to use both hands to smoke them all, like some kind of burning pan flute out of  a meth-induced feverdream. 

  The stranger quirked a caterpillar eyebrow at Garry. He was flabbergasted. Flabbergasted!

  Garry watched the stranger take a picture and post it to instagram without even looking at his iPhone. It was an action of habit. A rote gesture of the self delusion that people actually gave a shit. It was a lie.

 Garry zealously supported artistic expression, so he struck an interpretive pose just in time for the flash. The stranger didn’t seem to notice, too busy aggressively hash-tagging his disapproval all over the interweb.

  Garry lit up another eight cigarettes. His manly fists looked like birthday cakes made of meat and knuckles. 

  Understanding dawned on the stranger’s face. Epiphany made flesh.

  “Are you..” The stranger hesitated.

  “Are you smoking the Fibonacci sequence?” The stranger asked.

  Garry turned once more to the stranger and their eyes met. Tears of joy shimmered in the stranger’s eyes. Tears of love. 

  The stranger reached slowly into his trendy 90’s messenger bag and pulled a worn copy of the latest Fibonacci Quarterly, a mathematical journal of some prestige. The stranger’s face stared back at Garry from the cover art.

  The resemblance was uncanny. It was too good to be true. It was the ghost of the great Leonardo of Pisa!

  Before either of them had a chance to consider the repercussions to the space/time continuum, they were wrapped tightly in each others arms. Cigarettes tumbled to the ground beneath their feet, like smoldering confetti. It was an embrace written in the spiraling cosmos above and below.

  Garry awoke in a cold sweat. The uncomfortable erection-tent in his lap would have been embarrassing if he hadn’t been alone. Always alone.

  Garry cried himself back to sleep, the plushy Funko Pop Fibonacci doll clutched tightly between his muscular thighs. 

  Garry dreamt of spirals.
Previously published on Three Minute Plastic. 

The Misogynator

​   It moved through the crowd like some thuggish juggernaut of testosterone, all bulging muscles, and overpriced man-child clothing. 

  It didn’t weave amongst the flow of pedestrians but rather marched straight through, bumping the shoulder of anyone within shoulder-bumping range. You could hear the thing grunting in homophobic satisfaction with every body it sent sprawling. 

  Its internal WiFi connection continuously scouring social media feeds of the surrounding humans, zeroing in on any potential target for it’s rudimentary auto-troll subroutine. 

  All that auto-trolling had worked up a single voracious hunger within its tummy tum unit.

  It stopped at a hotdog stand, barking oversexualized innuendo at patrons as they paused to take each bite; yet refusing to eat any itself, so as not to ruin it’s diet of muscle shakes mixed with the tears of ex-girlfriends recently scorned.

  It chugged the thermos man-shake. It belched to the tune of Nickelback. It continued its mission.

  The ultimate goal of all the Misogynator BroBot-5000 units is to secretly suck up all the oxygen in its vicinity, and filter it through it’s testostero-neutrino engine, thus poisoning the surrounding air with mind numbing BR-0 pathogens that cloud the cognition of any unfortunate enough to be exposed. 

  Just then, a spark. A twitch of the right ocular camera. Too much testosterone, OVERLOAD!

  A rupture of the femoral artery caused the constricting crotch of its designer jeans to soak through with crimson motor oil. The entire hulking frame of the beast began to quake, and a pathetic gibbering escaped its oil stained lips. Sparks shot violently from between sculpted buttocks, turning the gore soaked jeans into a smoldering blaze that reaked of burning tires.

  Suddenly an explosion blossomed to life amongst the surrounding patrons, sending bits of meat and bone in every direction. As the pink mist cleared, all that remained of the BroBot-5000 was two muscular calves sticking out of a mysteriously pristine pair of white Vans.

  The survivors are left to pick up their shattered lives, and wonder why.
Previously published on Three Minute Plastic. 

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He awoke choking on his own spit.

Realization dawned upon his groggy mind, like a brick of sobriety shattering his teeth along with the remnants of half-remembered nightmares.

He was late.

He spent the next half an hour searching for an excuse amongst the detritus of shattered teeth and dreams, but found nothing even remotely believable.

He settled on the usual Alien abduction story, and tucked himself into the second hand lay-z-boy recliner to spin the yarn of his excuse sweater. For whatever reason, his excuse sweaters always ended up looking like horrifically ugly XXX-Mas sweaters. It was probably the peek-a-boob holes he always incorporated into the knitting of the chest. After all, when you’ve got a beautiful pair of bresticles, it is your duty as a red-blooded, god-fearing, American to show them off.

“Say no more.” Said his son’s teacher. “Your beautiful man-mammaries are all I need to see. You are a true scion of your community, sir.”

He nodded once, smiled, and spent the next few minutes violently mugging the kindergarteners of their lunch money.

Today was surely a fortuitous day.

Fin.