Category : Stories

Grasping Liliums

I met this girl with sunshine in her hair and a habit of holding my elbow. Im not really sure why she always chose to hold my elbow, but it was a cute little peculiararity.

Shed grab hold of me whenever I was near her, and just grasp that part of me with slender fingers. While crossing roads, shed do it also – always the same side. Always right in the middle. Right in that crook. Sometimes a little awkward, but cute nonetheless. Everyone has their own idiosyncrasies, and for her it was that. I’d asked her about it one day, brought it up in casual conversation – and she’d been dumbfounded. Hadnt realised that shed done it. Hadnt realised why she held my elbow. Hadnt realised that she’d been doing it her entire life.

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Our Change Of Season

“Oh,” she said, slight contours of the mouth. Pleasure creases. Childlike and innocent, “it has ice in it?”

“So its half full,” I say. Responding. Figuring it’s the only thing that needs to be said. “Bbetter than half empty, I guess?”

She looks down at it, held in a slender hand – a thorough grip, and little minor quip on her lips.

“Not sure. Could be. Might be better if it was half empty? Then at least I’d finish it sooner.”

Theres this point in a conversation, where you figure – do I launch, or do I plane. Do I resume, or do I walk away with that sullen expression and give it up for dead. Do I go home to the couch and forget all those whimsical moments, put on some kind of downloaded bullshit and let the attrition of the night blaze away in a rolled up shackle of light drawn into a night of wastreled concussion.

They’re not easy questions, and never easy answers. It seems that although we spent a disproportionate time of our lives looking around from our vantage points upon bar stools, benches, pools of lithe swarmed thoughts, that we don’t properly perceive the real essence of those items in our hands. In our wallets. In our progressions and tightly wound compressions of self wonder.

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Book Passing on Oxford

There is always something amongst the shelves. Always something there to be written, always another breath to be exhaled.

Touch fingers. Move them along the spines. YEarn, more than is necessary.

After a mountain of food, the sumptuous type that isnt really a mountain but is more bit sized pieces, whoc fil lyou but do nothing to really sate your hunger, unless that is, you eat enough of it in hundreds of spools of little plated goodness – well, after that, you go to a bookstore.

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Bright Eyes

I love her, yes I do, her with those eyes of bright shineyness. Its nothing about her, its just the way she looks – or what she looks with.

Im sitting in a pub when I catch a glance, and now – see, I’m just not the big into romance, there’s not that many things that catch me out. Unless there’s some kind of story there – something that eludes me. Something that pulls me in and makes me go “Oh lah lah loom” at a woman when she walks past.

But her, her. What can I say?

An obsession is only that which we really, truly desire. Okay, so we may desire it above all other things, we may want it more than is healthy. We want. We need. We take take take and collapse our reasoning on it without a single point of convolution or converging necessity.

It happens. Its happened to me. It happened to her.

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Joyride

I said hello, you fool.

I love you.

Come join the joyride –

and w’re crusin at around a hundred n fkn forty – right down the freeway, right past all the exits, right past Karrinyup and Warwick and Beach and all that other shit and we’re flying as fast as we can get, headin to the end of the line – as far the fuck up as we can make it.

“This aint fkn cruisin music ya cunt!” im squeelin, and Rods got his hair all dirty brown and lush stuck together with some kinda fkn wax n shit, all tossed up like that perv dude on BB – but Rods hot, ya know? Fkn hotter than Occy.

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The Little Between The Lie


We die a greater death with every lie we tell ourselves, and we are born a smaller birth with every truth told to others. Yet there I sat, burdened by truth, and never a lie between us. Some would think it a measureable and indeed, honourable, position in which to find oneself – but it can only ever count towards ones downfall. We as people, have been bred to lie, we have been born to die, and our societies progress birthed through our own abilities to tell the truth – for what is progress but that undeniable reaching forth for the truthfulness that lay behind the lies?

I rubbed my nose. Hayfever struck. I learnt over towards her. Reaching over to her, grabbing her hand – and there, that moment, was where I told her the truth.

“Tayah,” I said. Her name. The others name. Empathic. Sincere. Green eyes of mine burning into the brown hue of hers. Melding. WAtching those small sharp edges where the lids folded one over the other.”

I think, there may be a chance, that we can make this work.” I told her. It was my truth. I felt that moment, I really did. My truth, was, however, not hers.

“I just dont have the time to make it work, I dont know if I have the time…”

And we sat, waiting as the truth took its toll.

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Godhead

He figured that if a cat could eat its own tail in hunger, having accidentrally locked itself in a closet whilst its owners went away for a weekened, then he would have just a good chance of inseminating as many women as possible.

It was probably just as painful, and probably just as difficult as eating your own tail.

Of course, he ahd read the article, and wondered why it was that the cat chose its tail to eat, and not possibly its paws – tails are often redundant, but how a cat understands the concept of redundancy he jsut does not know. Although, according to a quick glance at the interweb, cats are actually smarter than dogs, and probably made the asplit decision to keep itself alive by biting off its own tail, then licking the wounds, then gently attempting to make the sausage-like entity that was indeed its tail, last as long as possible.

Therefore, according to wikipedia, and the at that ate its own tail, as well as a certain grey oparrot that made the noises “bard, I love you” to an unfaithful girlfriends boyfriend (whose name, was calulably, Steven), he decided to thereu[pon wreck his revenge again all women, as well as any parrots he came across.

cats, he liked, and was rather repelled by the idea of a cat eating its own tail – I mean, fuck, he was the guy who had almost vomited when he’d seena photo in the local paper of a cat (alive, not dead) with an arrow through its body (intact, bow, not crossbow).

his first attempt was laughable.

He didnt wear a condom.

Two days later, he fought off a terrible case of crabs and fiery piss that seemed as though someone had injected a miniture cat itself down his urethra, and the little cunt was not only chasing its own tail in the hopes of eating it, but slashing the inside of his wang with its feisty claws. He decided that protection was more than likely warranted, and that perhaps he would find another means of inseminating women.

1) He did not want to be a father
2) he was a very, very attractive man
3) he did, indeed, have a big dick – not so much long, but wide
4) he did not have any fatal diseases, and, apart from the crabs and the clap, he was quite clean
5) he had a fistful of dollars from a financial windfall, involving his dead aunt, he grappa distillery in her back shed, and the same said cat knocking it over whilst she was in the middle of the boil. Needless to say,h e inherited it all, and after much tears, decided to travel the world.

In the city of his first stop, he met a girl at the bar. Proceeded to woo her, wine her, and slipped her a rohypnol. They managed to get back to her hotel room,h e opened the door, laid her out on her bed and hiked her skirt up.

The sight of bare legs always excited him.

He took a small tube, pulled out his cock, and in a flurry of handstrokes managed to dispense ample amounts of semen intot he vwessel. He then took a small amount of tube, put his lips to it, and sucked said semen up into the tube. He leanted down, inserted the tubge into the girls cunt, and blew.

That was his first.

The next morning,h e was on the plane, sipping gin and tonics, and chatting up the flight stweardess. The next ngiht, he was fucking the stewardess on her delux water bed in some mid-american town, and enjoying himself thoroughly.

He didnt always nee to use pills, and indeed, wuite enjoyed the odd fuck here and there. But that was not his mission.

mission: insemination
timeline: before termination
objective: place semen from body into girls vagina, in hopes of impregnating enought women.
hypothesis: in several million years time, all human life will contain genetics from his body,t hus, rendering him unto each individual left.
conclusion: if each human entity contains genetic traces of said individual, said indivudal is there fopre father to all of humanity. Father of all of humanity is unto God. Therefore, in several hundreds of thousands of years, he was to become God of all humanity.

Inseminating as many women as possibly seemed a slight cost towards the attainment of Godhood.

After they fucked, she fell into a slight stupor. He took the condom off that he ahd been wearing, and dipped his fingers inside, smearing his cum all over his fingers. He leavned over and kissed her, and probed his fingers inside her now red, raw and extremely dripping pussy, murmuring sweet nothign and rationas besides – fingers up, semen in.

That should do,h e thought.

For weeks he travelled. No two were alike. Fat, shrot, petite, faces like a beaten soccer ball of with eyes of a angel – he wasnt picky, althought they had to have that “flush” about them. soenmthing that told him that their descendants would survive the coming future. In weeks, he ahd fucked or managed to pass on the best of his loins pride to over three hundred and fort yeight women, with no end in sight.

And in his wake:

success rate: 34% of all girls inseminated

67% of inseminated women abort
5% of inseminated, to keep babies miscarried

the remaining children lvied to term. Extrapolation deems a time period of three hundred and ninetry five thousand years to godhead.

He crunched the numbers. Chcked his bank account – the money was remaining, the urge was increasing, and the need to bring the timeframe down was a constant tick in the back of his neck, a crick if you must. soemwhere that a cat will crawl up and nuzzle you as you sleep, and wipe its little wet cat nose on your neck.

Thats what he missed – his cat.

Around his hand, is a bracelt. Upon dead, they will come – remove his head with some kind of strangely named hacksaw (although, in actual fact, it will indeed only be a hacksaw, no matter how prettily they will name it), take his head and freeze it in liquid nitrogen, with the explict purpose of being woken in three hundred and fifty thousand years.

Plus or minus several thousand cats.

It didnt always go well – sometimes they caught him out, and he tried to cry rape. Sometimes they liked it. sometimes they screamed “Fuck me, cum in me, cum in me” to which he realsied that they may possibly have been on the pill, in which case he would withdraw, and cum on their breasts, or in their mouths, or on their hair instead. Anywhere but inside – what a waste, he would think. all those glorious swimmers, those minions of god, wasted on a sticky mass of globbed up white across a bitches hairline.

Once, he got caught drugging a girl – but for lack of proof, he was released.

He travlled from townt o town, city to city, country to country, all the while inseminating, dopdging, playing, romancing, fucking, licking, often – often, almost gettihng it all wrong, soemtimes, getting it all right – until, by his calculations, the time was a nice tight variable of three hundred and forty thousand years.

so he decided – one or two more, one or two more. Easy to do – easy to do.

He started looking at classified for a palce to live in the next state over of the country he was visinting- somewhere far enough away that any sproglings wouldnt bother him, or he could deniy it anyways. He would change his name. He’d buy a burmese cat, and chop off its tail when it was young, so at least it didnt ahve the horror of having to eat its own tail if he ever accidentally left it int he cupboard when he went away on a holiday.

He wouldnt marry, but he’d have lots of lovers.

He’d make sure,t hat he got his dick tied. Vasectimated. Eviserated. Put the bung into the hole, so to speak – there was enough of him to go around.

So he looked for the perfect special. The girl to whom he’d bequeath his last rom-rod energy packed, loaded pineapple flavoured gene-rocket.

she’d like cats, ideally. He’d be petite. Normal. Brunette. Cute as a buttom and completely throw-areopundable.

He found her in a library.

He went back a few times.

He asked her out.

They went to dinner.

She liked cats.

They went to his place.

They took off their clothes.

They fucked.

After she begant o fall asleep, he took the condom, and this time, upturned it inside-out all over his fingers – the common play, the normal thing – she, had her back to him, and he didnt fear to be seem – he took his hand down, placed it between her legs and….

she turned, and slapped him.

Mirrors on the ceiling.

girl seeing what he’s doing.

He knew it to be the last one, so did, what he ahd not done before. Forced her down, lay her down, took pride in his effort. Smeared his genes amonsgt the petals of her sex and flew intoa rage so far gone that even he could not recuperate. after, she lay bleeding, dishevelled and broken – lasting in consciousness to ask some meaningless words for her mother.

To make sure he got the job done right, he stayed. He wanked. He stood over her, and put his god-minions into her flesh as many times as was possible.

He went to the kitchen.

He washed his hands in the sink.

He took a gun from his pocket, and walked tot he roof of the aprtment, and shot himself – once, through the heart, quickly, all the while wondering if he had forgotten to leave the cat door unlocked on the girls apartment, so that the cat could get in, and get out, and eat food, and do wahtever it was that cats generally do whent heir masteres are lying half dead on their bedroom floors.

After a minute, his bracelet chimed. They came some minutes later, helicopter in stead. They took a hacksaw, and placed his head in a bucket laden with liquid nitrogen laced with copious amounts of “sepcial additives” to stop cell ruptures. His herad would alst thousands of years, hundredas of thousands of years, if kept intact, they murmured. Long enough to revive him, they murmered.

Yet his final thought, as the bullet had taken his vastness into his own god-knighted future, was not of remorse, was not of anticipation, and was not of fear or tribulation or ecstacy at having obtained his objective

– it was,

simply:

“None of that was anywhere near as painful as eating my own tail would have been ….”

…and as she woke in the room below, and began uttering her screams, sperm raced upwards inside her, seeking a Godhead of their own to match the plans of his.

Parrots not included.

Tree Stump

… if you wear black, plastic-ish shoes

then sit in the sun for about half an hour

and your feet get hot

and now somehow your feet hurt

is it possible,

that you can cook your feet?

I was down talking tot he ducks. One of them looked at me sideways. Not longways, not the way it was supposed to. We talked, and ate, and I tohught to myself.

“Its getting,

really hot

down here”

But the duck didnt care. He jsut swan out into the water. He glided across its surface. He flapped and quacked and taunted me. Damn duck, taunted me. Sif to say “You cant swim

in those work clothes of yours.

And, guess what

You cant fucking fly, you featherless batard.

You.

Cant.

Fly.”

but the sun was hot, and I was feeling hot. not as hot as the chick who sat across the pond from me felt. She probably felt even hotter. She was wearing a crop. White shorts. short-short. Who weats short shorts? She wore short shorts. And damnit, there I was, working. In my blue top. In my work pants – but at elast I was wearing pants.

I didnt look, but the duck was going off. He was flapping away and I checked out the camel toe – in the distance. Because, as we all know, froma distance, we all look alright. We all look fabulous. If only, we could see each other, allt he time, from a distance – without contacts. without glasses, with the sun shining in our faces – coz if we di, we’d all be hot. We’d all think each and everyone of us were hot. And those of us, who arnt so hot, would look hot in the eyes of another hottie, and the hotness would kind of wrap itself around all of us, and we’d not think in terms of hot and not hot and am I hot or not or what and vote for me biatch coz its a lame website but no – we wouldnt do that.

And I felt

the sun on my crappy plasticesque shoes and I thought to myself

“Why cant I fly, or swim, like

the fucking duck.

Is he, hot , to other ducks?

or am I doomed to wander around, licking the backs of the camel-toads in roder to get

my buzz.”

Its not like lunchtime is ever any different down here. Its not like, by my checking out the girls that walk past,t hat I’llg et arrested – not like last time anyways, where I started taking photos of them – started walking up behind them all dood e doo de doo de like and then quick snap snaop un-skirt as I went past. I wasnt too happy about that,. I wasnt happy at all. They came, took away my collection. violated my constitutuional rights – Iw as being seditious! Me !ME, sediousous!

But they arrested me anyways.

And Ir eckon,t hat if the duck got arrested, he’d talk his way out of it – one look from his beady little yes and the pigs would be all like

“sorry! Case of mistaken identity! Didnt mean it, mustnt have been you!”

Even if he held a camera in its wings! Even if it flew upt heir skirts! Even if, god fucking forbid, he stuck his bill up one of their cunts and went

quack?

Coz the ducks get away with everything. I cant sneeze. I cant look. I cant lick camel-toads to get high, but I can lick camel toe to get randy. I can lick armpits. I can lick the behind corners of knees, and all those little crevicse that people wince about. But I think,th e best place to lick, has to be behind the teeth – a whole big tongue, rising upwards, feeling along the inside of her mandibles, that smooth smooth line of palate going up and down adnc runchy sideways and

My feet started heating. And the plastic

started melting and inside I’m thinking

no fuckin way. No way man, theres
just no way my feet can COOK inside these shoes.

– and then, well, its time for a duck sandwich. So I take a stick, and jsut as its coming enar me, and – yeah, I had bread in my hand, lingering,a nd leeting it come closer, closer – I hold this stick int he air already, and it glides over from where its been meandering around her, and goes across the water – oh yeah, oh so slowly, sleekly, and comes up, and grabs my bread, and gobbles it down. Walk forward a little and

SNAP

I break the little bastards neck with the stick,a nd its kinda just – you know, limping around and hobblign and shit, amkign these freaked out duck noises, sounding like Daffy after smashing down a sdippy or after his junks beent aken away and he';s got the crawlies, cept this thnig, its n ot dying clean,a nd its kinda going “wtf have you done man, man wtf, wtf you doing man”

so I bring the stick down.

Again.

Again.

Feather.

Again.

…and you know? she screamed. I cant upskrit her panties. I cant lick her camel-toad. I cant even say hi, but I’m there, you know – in those work clothes. And i’ve got bits of duck spaqttered on me, coz i’ve pulped the fucking thing intot he ground. Teach it to fucking FLY. Teach it to be able to swim – I am akin none of that crap! I aint all that hot, but I’m hotter than a bit of pulped up -once-we-were-warrior-duck meat ground into alwn.

Hell, its fertiliser.

Hell, she went on and on and on “omg what are you doing, wyou fuckign psycho, you bastard, you prick!”

and theres this crowd. And i’ve got my camera hpone out. And i’m takin pics. And im all like

“Duck-foo-chew-you! Come get your duck, great wok-friecd! pre-tenderised!”

But my feet, and you know, I’ve been out int he sun for quite a while – they’re hot. I think they’re cooking. I think, I need to get them off –

– and I then realsied, I had the perfect solution, I didnt ened no camera. I dint need to know how hot I was or that the girl who was screaming was ont he phone to the cops, or that they were going to come grab me (fuckina gain, better hide my phone, im banned from all technological devices/cameras/video recorders/coiverecorders/lithography/sonographs/tea-coseys) and I didnt need to fly. I didnt need to swim.

I jsut needed to be me!

so I stripped naked, there, under the sun, near the (generally) fucked up duck who wouldnt be saying much more if ever it said a thing, and gracefully, gently, ever so slightly, humped the nearest tree.

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Taste

Every so often, I take a bite out of a battery.

Put it to my tongue. Wait for it to splice its way through my mouth – bitter, sweet. Theres no shock, just a gentle un-easiness around my lips, a certain squint of my eyes. The slather of my extended mouth-member touching the terminals on either side.

That, is what it was like to kiss you.

That, is what it was like, to taste you.

There was a morning, when we lay – curled and sultry, down by the waters edge. Flakes of sand blwon up against the folds of the blanket. Spittles of salt in our eyes. The corners, of our mouths, broken a little – too much, too ghit. I’d entered you, there – for the first time. Taken you and made you wonder what it was that I saw so much in it – attempted to bring you into my world. To take you as far as I could – but you’d been hurt, and we’d only done it once. Just that once.

“Shallw e try again?”

“no, no…its…if thats okay.”

The sea – is over there, I could feel it – the restless breaking. The bottle of um emptied – I wondered, if that was remorse shouting on he edges of the breakers – if that gull, the one that walked in the distance, half hidden by the breakn, if its cry was your cry – if its name was being shouted out towards the sea with yours while it pecked at the shoreline.

The partyy was interesting. We had walked. We hadnt any clue – and in the darkness, we’d taken that bottle from the fridge – it had been somone elses. I handt bought it – had you? No, not with that glint in your eyes. Not with that mischevious smile as we walked through that back street to the ocean – dark. Splendid. Cold. Fucking so very fucking cold.

Every so often, I take a bite out of my memory – and its there, discharged on my mouth, in my world.

Its a world, of sensation, a world of mere taste and carboard-like walls, because it happened – so very long ago. I remember – fleetingly, the drive up there with my mate.

“What we doin tonight?’

“Man, lets fucking drive to Lancelin – we’ve got this invite – they’ve said we can stay!”

“Nah, fuck that – too far.”

I looked at him, I sneered.

“You got fucking yours – now, I gotta get mine asshole. You owe me, you know that! You fucking owe me!”

Coz, there we’d been. Down the marina. We’d taken acid earlier, and in the corner of one of the walkways – above, there was this spiralled bit – this thing like a circus freakshow. So we’d spun, and spun – we’d meandered around, and we’d come down when the pubs had shut. Whent he lights had gone off – and we’d gone over to the limestone edges – and, strangely,t hey’d been there. One of them – his, the one *I* had always had a crush on, was there – with a friend. She was – well, she was alright. She was tall. She was … young. Younger than me. Considering I was young – she was young. We’d hung out. Ended back – sneaking, into their house later that night – they’d jsut moved out.

Curled up. Two beds to the room. A piar to each side – I could hear bits and pieces form the other side – where he, he was oing stuff to her. I kissed you. I touched you, here – there, I tried not to listen, because you were hesitant – but we’d jsut met. We were a little excited – but not as excited as them –

– you’d bothe walked out, quickly. He’d leaned over – “Come on man, give it to me! you’re not getting anywhere!”

And when they’d got back, I’d given it to him., Wrapped and fleeting. Encased in its own mpackaged arena – and there we were – you, next to me – us, only touching – while they fucked the utter shit out of each other.

“Nah man, we’re going up to Lancelin. you owe me, I gave you my last one! They want us to go up, and its my fucking turn!”

It was morning, when we lay there. The sun was up. My head was thrashing, and you’d forgotten to out those pants back on – the ones I’d taken down,t he ones I’d removed. You’d been hesitant, but eager – the laxation of the rum – the sucrose-desire. Sugar, sweet – and we’d kissed, and it had tasted like cane. We’d touched, and it had felt like fire through a field of grass.

We hadnt taken long.

We’d taken it all.

I was your first, and I was eager – no wonder you hadnt wanted it before – no wonder you were scared. I was no teacher. I was clumsy, unthoughtful – I was too used to it, forgetting what it was that you really needed – only interested in myself. Vague tot he moonlight that splashed downa round us – feral, eager, wanting and yeaning – gotta get it in, gotta go, gotta touch you gotta fuckin rip and slid and oh fuck yeah, fuck, throw you on top – wait for you to do that thing you did where you did it and I’m not paying attention.

I’m not paying any attention, and I’m hearing your moans. I’m hearing the words, and I’m going and off – and on, and off.

I left you behind, and I broke you in.

I broke you, and I left myself behind.

Every so often, I take a taste of my honesty. I bite down on it as if it were a battery, and let the bile come up towards me – let the feverant taste of humility break into me. We’d fallen asleep, and I’d even asked for more – I was your first, and I was your lover – if but for that one night. If but for that moment. In that morning, when I kissed you – I tasted something that had not beent here before.

Disappointment. Fear. Want. Regret and the hint of pain that only comes from something that has, not been forced, but over-run.

It was the taste of selfish resolution.

The salt in your eyes was not only that of the sea – there, int he corners, I knew that you had, drunkenly, cried as you wept. Cried even as you held on to me – your possessor, your taker. Your fucking first.

That, is what it was like for you, to have me.

That, is what it was like, for you, to have given yourself to me.

Every so often, I try to remember, and know that I cannot. I take the battery and plug it down deep, try to swallow the damn thing whole – its the only way I can remember. I put the two poles against my tongue and try, try to remeber what it was that I had lost – what it wa, that I had done. I tried to remember, there, what it was that I had either given – or taken, or lost – but no matter how much I taste. No matter how much I defride myself, there is no escaping the simple fact that too much time has passed, and the moment is left as a mere imago of the event –

I cannot take the taste, and I msut not regret.

Yet here I am, still trying. Still worrying.

Still wondering, what your name actually was…