Love is Like a Rose, or Some Shit Like That

It's fragrant, but it's pointy!

I'm fortunate in that, when I was in my early thirties, I actually met an all-around great girl. She's intelligent, caring, sexy, and creates great pop-art-style paintings. I live in a small/mid-sized Canadian town full of haggard skanks; I moved here through an unlikely series of events about eight years ago, and had pretty much lost hope on finding a girl who wasn't stepping out on her boyfriend or husband (seriously, almost every girl I dated in the first couple of years that I lived in this shitty town was out slutting behind her SO's back). So, after much frustration and annoyance, I finally found her - LOL - on a cheesy online dating site.

We squabble a lot, but it's because we're kinda poor these days. If we were rich, we'd never squabble (we'd still wrestle, though, damn straight). When we're not too tired for sexy times, the whoopie is incredible. She reluctantly makes me dinner, and I reluctantly drive her places. It's the best relationship I've ever had.

Most of my romantic relations in the past have been a mess. Constant fighting, cheating, domestic disturbances ... all that white-trash shit, man, all of it. Relationships can be absolute poison. Here's a short little tale of a romance that has gone wildly south ... 


The stage was set for his final vengeance; Eddie called Mel and told her that he was going to do it, that her coldness and infidelity had finally driven him to suicide. He told her that he believed her only reason for existence was to destroy his spirit, and that she had succeeded.

"Wait!" she gasped, her voice urgent, "please ... let me come see you before you do anything rash!" Eddie hung up on her and, while he waited, he readied the noose. When Mel came strutting in through the front door, Eddie was balanced on a stool, the rope already tight around his neck. He grinned at her, a crazed sickle of longing soured to madness.

Not breaking her fast, leggy pace, the vulpine succubus glided across the living room and kicked the stool out from beneath Eddie's feet. He squawked and fell to the end of the rope with a muffled snap, his eyes bulging at her in disbelief. The thing jumped onto him and clung like a mantis, staring into his distorted face raptly ... feeding ...

Aliens are Scary

I want to see one - but, not too close, y'know?

I'm fascinated with UFO's. Almost unhealthily so. I'm convinced that the Earth is pretty much swarming with the fuckers, and that most governments and ruling elite are well aware of this, and that they have (one way or another) adapted technologies garnered from the alien visitors. No, I don't wear a tinfoil hat - I just think that the evidence of this being true is overwhelming. Photos, videos, credible first-person accounts ... 

Now, let's consider the incredible gains we've had in all sorts of sciences and technologies since World War II. After some five hundred years of slow, linear progression in the creation and tempering of the sciences, shit suddenly got fucking advanced, man. From Velcro to advanced computer technology to freakin' face transplants, in the past seventy-some-odd years the human race has exploded with ingenious innovations. Coincidentally, the start of this wave seem to occur during the beginning of the era of UFO sightings (nuclear technologies, however, were pretty much our baby from the beginning. Can't blame extra-terrestrials for that one).

Here's another creepy vid that will make you either want to scan the skies, or hide inside at night.

I think that we should keep in mind that, as "alien" as they are to us, we would also be to them. I wonder how they perceive us, from aboard their craft (if that's what those things are, even)? During an encounter between us and them, who would be more freaked out?

Deer Diaree

Deer Diaree,

Today sumthin happen witch I cant not explane at all. It is harvest time now mind you and I been drinkin for three day strate now, sleepin almost none at all and workin til maybe I gonna have a hart attak. I got mebbe three week tops before the Ranes come and drown my feelds. The preshure to get finnished in time drive me to drink and I hit my wife sometimes too. But any ways what I meen to say is that what happen wernt from the drink, it rilly happen to me today.

Tomorroh I will call the Sheriff and he will bring a camerra to take pickshures of the mess. Then everyone will see I aint lyin none at all, even if it sownds like a lye it aint.

This is what happen.

I was just finnishin the cuttin in my north fortee. It has a big slope in the middle of the bitch, it rise up probably fifteen degree or more then down aggen. I had my cousin Ell out helpin me, he drive the harvester and I come in behind on foot an make sure he stay strate when he drive it. Well he didnt he went off coarse and hit a fuckin rock that bust the blades reel bad. He was drunk.

I yell at him and tell him he aint no good. He tried to bite my ear and we fight and I beet him up. We was rollin around kickin and fightin in the damn dirt and we roll down that bitch slope all the way to the bottom. I got up on top and pound him out reel good when I herd sum noize like a bunch of beez on fire, only way I can describe it you see. I stop hittin Ell and look up cuz there is a shadow over us too but there aint no clouds in the sky. I look up and theres a fuckin flyin sawser comin down from the sky. It happen just like that. The sawser look like a shiny mettle bowl on top of a couple sawhorse with flame shootin out the bottom. Ell started screamin it was aliens like what we seen at the picture show a couple yeers ago in town. He screemin Let me up, Let me up I'm gonna run away, an he pushed me offa him and run like his ass were on fire. I just sat in the dirt and watched it flote down to the top of that slope, it was like I was to scairt to move. I was froze an couldn't run, my hart was poundin and I feel sick to my stomack. I could feel the wind comin off the thing as it came down, hot and smelt like burning wires. It were pretty big, at least the size of the harvester and twice as tall. It had some weerd letters or markings on the side of it, like nothin I ever seen before. It were an alien langwich, you know, I could see that rite away.

A door open on it then and I figger the aliens was coming out to git me. This made me jump up off the dirt and run back over to where my gun was layin in the weeds, I always bring it in case of wild animals. I grab it up and see that they WERE comin out to git me, five of them! They was small no bigger than a kid, they walked weerd and was all shiny to like the sawser. They had no faces, it were just like a shiny glass bubbel insted. I yell at them to stay back but they didnt, they kept on comin and i felt a sting where one shot me with a string of lite and it burnt me good on my chest. So I fire back, and Im a good fuckin shot I shot all of them dead. Red stuff came out when the bullets ripped threw them, and they make these awful hi pitch noizes. One must have stayed in the sawser becuz the door slide shut and it took off fast back up into the sky.
I stay back and wait til I know they was dead, the sounds stopped an they lay still there on that slope. Then I come up and I looked at them.

They was so tiny and little. So much red stuff in them tho I could hardly beleeve it. I thought maybe one was still alive and movin a bit so I stomped on him hard and I herd braking sounds come from under my boot. I was mad becuz the little fucker shot me with a space gun. I tried to pick up the little gun but it was hot and burnt my fingers so I threw it out into the weeds and swore.

Twomorrow the Sheriff will come and then I will get my pickshure in the papers and maybe get some money, who knows? I hope so farming is a hard life, and now I got a harvester to fix. My only help around here is Ell and he aint no good. I have drew up some pickshures of the sawser and the aliens, but I aint good at drawin not like my wife she can paint pretty pickshures and it make me sorry I use my fists on her. Any way I will try and make the markings I seen on the side of the sawser heer in my diaree.


I hope that more of the aliens dont come back on my land becuz if they do I will shoot them all dead like the others. I will.


I'm Not Even Kidding! It's Free today!

I'm offering my novel, "99 Brief Scenes From the End of the World" for free today, June 18th! It's an apocalyptic horror novel about the end of Western Civilization at the hands of a sinister alien radio signal - graphic violence, political intrigue, coarse humor, it's all there for the readin'!

Here the link!

Sleep? What is This Sleep You Speak Of?

Seriously, This is Getting Crazy

No sleep. Like, three to four hours a night. Too fucking much to do, not enough hours in which to do it. I was driving on the 401 the other day and I seriously hallucinated that a truck was floating about eight inches off of the surface of the road, wheels spinning, driving along on thin air. What the fucking FUCK, I thought, somewhere between panic and amazement, that eighteen-wheeler is being operated by Magneto! Then I blinked a few times and realized that it was some weird trick of the mid-morning light and shadow, and that I need to fucking sleep, ASAP.

Another effect of the sleep-deprivation is bitterness. So BITTER, brah. I find myself wanting to hurt others for no reasonable cause, except that I'm tired to the point of experiencing a psychotic break from reality. Will there be sleep in my future? Or will I drive my van right into the fucking sun, borne high on leathery pterodactyl wings?

Here's a little blurb I wrote a while ago, concerning the topic of experiencing a break from reality. It would really, really suck ass if this were to actually happen to me.

It happens instantaneously, from one moment to the next - you are walking along a suburban street one fine summer night, and during the time it takes you to lift one foot from the sidewalk and put it ahead of the other, you suddenly find yourself somewhere ... else. 

Instead of firmly bracing the familiar concrete of the sidewalk, your running shoe crunches into a grit of greyish sand. The shock of the sudden change in your environment hits your body before your brain can even register what your eyes are seeing, and you start shuddering uncontrollably. The sky above you is now a murky, multi-hued haze, and the moon is gone - instead, two different, dim and alien orbs hang overhead. You can see no other stars through the toxic smog of this alien sky. You can't breathe properly. This is a cold, poisonous atmosphere that was never meant for human lungs. Fuck, your eyes are burning, as are your nostrils, mouth, throat and lungs; panicked, you stagger in a big looping circle to nowhere. The footprints left in the alkaline grit behind you are the only ones in sight. You are alone.

The street is gone, the town you live in is gone, and there is now only a sandy grey plain as far as your inflamed eyes can see. You scream, meaninglessly, for help. There is none to be had. As the scream tears like a buzzsaw out of your throat, a mist of blood escapes your mouth, pushed from your chest with a rush of the bitter, freezing air.

The scene is bathed in a sickly orange-yellow light from the moons (suns?) that shine weakly through the overhead murk. The plain is filled with strange cactus-looking things, grey like the sand, huge and spiky. It seems that they are swarming with thousands of  insectile worm-things, some almost four feet long. They chitter and buzz in a deep, low tone that you can feel in your chest. They are horrible to behold, and your sanity teeters wildly.

You cough again, and this time it isn't just a mist that escapes, it's a full gush of precious, crimson life. You're drowning in your own bloody mucous. You stagger backward, the heavy gravity dragging at you like dangling lead weights. You fall. Collapse into the caustic dirt beneath you. Try to crawl, spasm, and finally lay still. In the distance, there are mountains that rise to dizzying heights, and you stare at them as you die.

Did a Reading at a Gay Bar!

So, Here's the Story

A friend of mine who I jammed with for a while invited me to come do a reading before a punk rock show he was putting on - at a local gay bar. Why there? Were the bands gay-themed punk rock (also known as "queer-core")? Nope - there just aren't many places to play a show at in my neck of the woods, not anymore. Live music is dying out all over, killed by a sneaky thrust of the club DJ's sword. But that's another story ...

So, I read a short passage from my debut, self-published novel, 99 Brief Scenes From the End of the World, to a mostly-empty room (it was only nine-thirty at night, still early for the punk crowd) - then picked up my electric and murdered a Waylon Jennings tune. I fumble-fingered my lead bit something terrible, and was EXTREMELY glad that no one was there to witness it (I'm generally regarded as a decent-enough guitarist in the local scene, although that impression would have died if anyone had been around to see THAT shit). Determined to redeem myself, I did a passable solo version of "Biko" by Peter Gabriel, then called it quits.

Here's another little Reddit throwaway, one that is (slightly) homosexually-themed. Solidarity, yo.

I'm Not What You Think I Am 

"I don't want to disappoint you, hun, but I'm not what you think I am," Constance told the john, and lifted the mini-skirt he wore to show what lay underneath.

"That's okay," the john chuckled, and he closed the door. Locked it. He turned around to face Constance, and his grin was full of curved fangs. In a blur, the john had Constance pinned to the motel bed. His cold, iron hand throttled back the screams.

"I'm not what you think I am, either."

Of Kittens and Lunatics

People Love Kitties

I mean, they really, really love those crazy, jumping-around-like-a-wolf-spider bits of fluff, don't they? They'll adopt like, seventeen of the things, and love each and every one of them like a child. As for me, I don't mind cats, as long as they're fixed. I don't scary-love them to the point of being a fucking weirdo, though.

 I posted this little quickie on Reddit and, at first, there were downvotes and bitter outrage. Personally, I think it's a feel-good story. You be the judge.

Paw Prints

One by one, he threw the helpless kittens into the burlap sack. The first kittens in the bag squealed and meowed pathetically as the accumulating bodies of their siblings smothered them. Their pain and fear made the man smile. He walked to the edge of the creek and along the bank, looking for a deep spot in the water. He found one soon enough, at a bend, and clambered down the embankment to stand on the rocks at the edge of the water.

"Bye-bye, kitties!" the man laughed, and prepared to launch them into the water. As he cocked his arm back to let the bag fly, his feet slipped on the mossy rocks, and he fell hard. The back of his head smashed, with brutal force, onto the jagged rocks beneath him. One by one the kittens escaped the bag, running past his twitching body and back up the embankment. They left tiny bloody paw prints on the rocks behind them.

Starving Artists and Shit

I Need a Goddamn Job ... For realz, yo


Months ago, I took a lay-off from a shitty local factory, and turned it into an opportunity to finally write that fucking book that I wanted to write ... and I did, and it's published, and now ... shit! Unemployment ran out! For the first time in a long, long time, I am without a solid means to help support my little family unit. Predictably, my self-published novel was not immediately a smash success, ha, and I have not won the goddamn lottery. So, in the interim, I must begin the search for yet another meaningless survival-job, and waiting to either sell some books or WIN THAT MOTHERFUCKING LOTTO MAX. 

I'm going to get around to putting more links on this thing to places where one might purchase said book, as soon as I can get my younger-and-therefore-more-computer-savvy girlfriend to do it for me. Seriously, HTML code and all that shit is like fucking Sanskrit to me.  I can't even place a fucking widget somewhere. The whole business makes Hulk want to SMASH. 

SO! Right! Story time! This one's relevant. It's called "The Interview."

I hate this fucking prick. I hate him so fucking MUCH. 

Doug watched as Hennings squinted at his resume across the cheap, phony little desk. The man tapped a clear Bic pen on his green ink blotter pad as he did so, thup-thup-thup-thup. Hennings frowned through the slim lenses of his glasses at the stapled papers in his hand, made low, unimpressed sounds in the back of his wattled neck - and fucking kept tapping that goddamned pen, a measured percussive accompaniment to his blatant disapproval.
"You haven't worked in a while, Mr. Armstrong," Hennings said. His voice was bright and crisp with antagonism. He looked up from the resume and jabbed Doug with a cold, fishy stare. "Why is that? Eight months go by and you haven't worked? Just riding the unemployment train, right? Getting in some couch time?"

He spat the questions out in a hard, rapid barrage. Each one was meant to be a slap in the face. Doug tried valiantly to keep his expression neutral. "I took some time off and wrote a book. A novel. It was something that I've always-"

"A book?" Hennings repeated, accusingly: he said "book" in the same tone one might use when uttering the word bullshit. "It doesn't say anything about being a novelist in your employment history, Mr. Armstrong. It says that you have experience in MIG welding, warehousing, and quality control. Nowhere on this resume did I see any reference to authorship of any kind." 

This fucking retard seems to be implying that I'm ... lying to him, somehow? Doug tried briefly to wrap his head around this, but failed. What the fuck?

"I apologize, Mr. Hennings, I didn't in any way mean to seem misleading on my resume ... I'll be sure to fix that and, uh, expand on what I've been doing since Tri-Tech closed its doors. I don't want it to seem like I've been sitting idly around for months on end, channel-surfing." Hennings said nothing, just stared at him, as if Doug were some sort of distasteful specimen that the Human Resources staffer had been unwillingly assigned to study and quantify. Clearing his throat, Doug ventured, " If you look on the second page, though, you'll see that I mention writing the book under the heading, "Interests". Truthfully, writing a full-length novel was a lot more challenging than any job or task that you'll see mentioned on my resume-"

"Second page?" Hennings interrupted again. "I never get to the "second page", Mr. Armstrong. It doesn't exist for me. If I don't see what I want to see on the first page, I'm done." Hennings dropped Doug's resume onto the green blotter. "Sitting on your duff, pecking at a keyboard while sucking away at the system doesn't seem very challenging to me - and if we're going to be honest with each other here, I'll tell you that I'm not sure if I like what I see here on your resume."

Doug was starting to sweat a little under the strain of keeping his teeth from gritting with mounting fury, and his fists from clenching on the plastic armrests of his chair, clenching into bony clubs. What was this guy's problem? What did it matter to this man if Doug had taken a few months off to do fucking whatever? He was applying for a job working on a manufacturing line. Any able-bodied person of average intelligence could do it with absolutely zero experience. And ... what the hell was that crap about "sucking away at the system"? The arrogant, dim-witted fuck was referring to government-enforced unemployment insurance that he, as a working man for most of his adult life, had been forced to pay into whether he wanted to or not. His blood was starting to pound in his head. Doug took a long breath in and, striving for mild neutrality, said "Oh? Can you tell me specifically why or what it is that bothers you on my resume?"

Hennings snorted. For a brief moment, Doug's fists clenched. "I'm talking about the eight months that you spent not gainfully employed. Why? To write a book? Do it in your spare time, man! Seriously, what are you ... thirty-seven or eight? I'd expect an idealistic college drop-out to do something of that nature, not a man of your age. The word 'shiftless' comes to mind."

His heart, pounding rapidly. Every sense razor sharp, every muscle alive with electric strength. Doug could smell the acrid sharpness of the man's cheap cologne, could see the faint beating of a pulse in a vein that ran across his high forehead. He could feel the man's essential frailty, like a predator. Doug bared his teeth at Hennings in an attempt to smile.

"Mr. Hennings, I have a wife and two children, and all the commotion and bustle that goes along with being a family man. Spare time? If you're working a full-time job, with over-time to boot, and two young kids, and a household to maintain on top of everything else - well, there's no such thing as spare time, okay? I had just been laid off from Tri-Tech ... and just it seemed like a good chance to finally do it. Completing a book in that period of time was a feat unto itself. I edited the thing myself, and formatted it for publication. All that, in eight crazy, sleepless months-"

Doug stopped talking, not believing the ignorant audacity of the man sitting across the desk from him - the officious, sagging old fuck in his garish maroon tie was actually fucking clapping at him, slowly, sarcastically - clap. clap. clap. He gave up the ghost on trying to be congenial, at that point. There was just no fucking way. The feeling was coming on him, now. It was a surge of sweet, hot rage that enveloped him, as it always did, in a fevered velvet glove of murder-lust.

"Bravo, Armstrong, great - writer, editor, and everything. Why are you telling me this? Am I looking for a secretary to proof my correspondence?" Hennings began to drum the pen against the desk blotter again. "No, I'm not. What I need is few people who can reliably show up every day and give one-hundred percent, each and every day, six days a week -"

Oh, fuck, that PEN, he's tapping that fucking PEN-

"-not a day-dreamer that's going to miss days, and even more importantly, miss defects in the product," tap-tap-tap, "because this company's reputation for quality control precedes us." Tap-tap-tap-tap-TAP-TAP-TAP- 

Now. Right fucking NOW.

"FFFFFUUCK!" Doug roared, and he sprang forward from his chair like a panther. As he cleared the desk, Doug swiped the pen from the startled man's hand and stuck it into his right eye, all in one fluid motion. He slammed into Hennings and knocked him backwards onto the ground, chair and all. The older man struggled to scream, but the wind was knocked out of him. His hands found the half of the pen that protruded from his ruined eye socket. Doug could see that he was trying to shriek, "My eye! My eye!", but only a pained whistle was issuing from his loose, blabbering mouth. Doug straddled the prone man and, with the flat of his palm, he drove the pen home, all the way to the hilt. It made an wet, indistinct tearing sound. Hennings spasmed and kicked, his gray-trousered legs sticking straight up because of the chair that was still beneath him. Doug pinned his thrashing with a grip of maniacal steel.

"I didn't tell you what the book is about," Doug hissed down at the man. "It's about a guy who has poor self-control, sometimes. It's kind of an autobiography, really." 

"Why?" Hennings tried to ask, but it was just a wheeze. Blood was coursing in a steady stream from his eye socket. It leaked into his mouth, and he choked.

"Don't blame me. Don't even bother trying. It just wasn't your day, buddy, that's all. You piece of shit." He slammed his fist down into Hennings' protruding Adam's apple. It crunched, and the hapless man bucked beneath him wildly, gurgling and coughing blood. Doug pinned him and waited it out. When his struggles were weak enough, Doug let him go. The murder-lust was gone. It was time to boogie.

He opened the door and walked out into the reception room. It was after five, and the secretary was either on a break or had gone home. The line of plastic chairs against the wall was empty -  he'd been the last interviewee of the day. Doug flipped up the big hood of his jacket and walked briskly out into the hall, the heavy door locking shut behind him. If the secretary didn't come back and find the mess, the cleaning staff soon would. In the hall, a few workers were bustling out through a man-door onto the production floor. They were obviously in a hurry to get back to work from an illicit smoke break, and paid him no attention.

Doug strolled, nonchalantly, out a metal door and into the huge parking lot, just some unremarkable Joe on his way out to his unremarkable car. He left Jeffrey Armstrong behind him, trapped on the paper of a blood-spattered resume. The cops would find the resume, a Hotmail account, a pilfered Social Insurance Number, and not much else. The grainy footage from the CCTV cams would show a hooded man of average height and build, getting into a Ford Focus. Neither the security guard at the gate or the distraught secretary would be able to provide much more information, just the vague description of an average Caucasian man in a blue hooded windbreaker and jeans. As a fellow who had very little control over his murderous impulses, Doug had learned how to be unremarkable long ago. It was an art. Multiple identities and anonymity were a necessity, to maintain the intricate web of deceit that was the framework of his life. It was taxing, unpredictable way to live, and keeping his story straight could sometimes be a bitch - but it was better than taking shit from people like Hennings.

When he got home from the long commute, Doug's wife asked him how things went. Doug explained regretfully that he didn't make the interview. Tire blew. Had to put the spare on.

"Oh, hun, that's crappy! Shit ... well, maybe if you call them and explain, they'll give you another interview."

"Ah, I don't think so, babe. I think I'll just forget them, and go on to the next one, y'know?"

Welcome to my Blog thingy!

I am not good with computers ... not at ALL

I wish that I could just, y'know, write stories and books and stuff. Nice and simple. That would be kick-ass, because I am not good with computers. Not at all. I had to create a Twitter account, 'cuz that's what all the self-publishing cool kids do - and it took me forever to figure that crap out. Actually, I STILL don't know half of how to use that site. Shit like that is literally beyond my low-tech cognitive abilities. So, eventually I'll figure out how to make this blog look less like some crappy garbage, and more like something a reasonable human being might actually want to kill some time looking at.

Wow, I did it. Victory for the neanderthal!

Okay, this blog is called "Story Time", and therefore I will give you stories to read. Here's a couple of  really, really short stories that I originally posted on, a fun little sub-reddit where you can rip through a large number of stories in a short period of time. Good for bus rides, or going poop.

Gelding Day

The youth felt extremely sorry for the livestock. He hated their screams. Today, his job was to geld the young males in the herd. The others went about their grisly work with stoic expressions, clamping the Gelder into place and pushing the button quickly and deliberately - to them, it was just another job that had to get done. The youth dragged behind, slow as he could, wanting to repeat the horrid action as few times as possible.

An Elder approached, overseeing the task, and the youth blurted out, "Why must we do this? It's cruel. Isn't there a better way?"

"They only suffer momentarily," the Elder consoled. "It must be done, to prevent unwanted breeding, and to curb aggression. Homo Sapiens are prone to violent outbursts, especially if they aren't being put out to stud. Only the finest specimens can be allowed to rut, you know that. Now, pick up the pace, young one! We still have much work to do in the slaughter-house later."

What Goes Around, Comes Around

"C'mon, bitch, stupid bitch, run faster!" Steve gasped, and he slapped Maria hard across the back of the head, making her cry out. Behind them, the awful things were gaining, lurching with eerie speed out of the fog. Steve grabbed her arm cruelly, and dragged Maria along behind him. "Fucking stupid bitch, do you want to die? Run, goddammit!"

The fleeing couple pounded down the road to the car, the ululating howls of their unnatural pursuers getting closer by the second. Steve slapped his pockets frantically. "Keys, fuck, where'd you put the keys, moron?!"

"I've got them here!" Maria shrilled back at him. She unlocked the driver's side door, jumped in - and, starting the engine, dropped it into drive and took off in a spray of gravel. Steve could only watch, helpless, as his long-suffering girlfriend screamed, "Who's the stupid bitch now? Have fun!" then sped away, sticking her arm out the window to flip him off.