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The Scum Gentry Prose Desk: literary magazines and writing websites hub: literary fiction, horror stories, weird fiction and more...

Pussy on the Mark - Short Story by Jeff Bagato

Stolen stories translated into new language—a language never before spoken—never to be spoken—the unspoken present time. Immediate words exist before signs. All language is past time. All past time is dead time. Language of past is language of future. Pussy is the language of the present. Pussy is a language of stolen words that are no longer words.

This is the story of Doom Pussy and the war against cock time language.

Staying in Touch

Doom Pussy settles in at the bar between Nails and Smash, accepts the drink they immediately offer.

“‘Bout time you got here.” Nails slurs his words ever so slightly. “We was just thinking about moving to the next bar.”

“There isn’t another bar for miles—out on the next base in fact,” Doom Pussy reminds him. “You’d have to cut through a lot of cock country to get there.”

“Don’t I know it. It’d be worth it, though.”

“Need a change of scenery,” Smash mutters.

“Not to mention working up an appetite for those new drinks,” Nails adds.

“Or the extra cocks on our hatchet lists...


Le son De - Short Story by Jim Meirose

Doctor Sax sat waiting for Stannie with four and a half minutes to go. Idly he sat watching the fast ping-pong game his apprehension regarding this lesson had conjured to distract him. Identical faceless players volleyed the ball super-intensely so that it could not be seen even as a blur, but only as nothing at all. The super-speedy ping-pong paddles driving this phenomenon necessarily vanished from view as well and in moments the players themselves realized they had been playing so well that the point had been reached where the game had been played so perfectly that it had reached a level of perfection beyond the maximum a ping-pong game could ever be, so; since they had played the game completely out of existence, they dropped their arms, stepped away, and, there being no further reason for a ping-pong table to be present in the Sax music studio, they folded up the unused table and stowed it back into Doc Sax’s imagination then without a word they too followed in behind the table, but—the ping-pong ball and the ping-pong paddles slowed and reappeared in midair and fell to the floor in the dead center of the perfectly square throw rug, at the exact instant that a knock came at the door, the latch clicked open, and there stood Stannie the SaxMan dragging his big black sax bag heavily behind—even as Doc Sax marveled at the rip in something—space and time or time and space or probably something else entirely—Stannie cried out across his large Hello, swung the sax bag over onto his chair, and pointed to the paddles and ball.

Like ping-pong, Doc? Who you been playing...


Dumpster RabbittZ part two - Fiction Serial by Bryan Higby and Ricky D. Snyder

Read Part One Here

Chapter Two

Rob Wash removed a joint from between his thick brown lips as he ran one calloused hand through his graying nappy hair watching those two fellas, John Friend and the local DJ cat, Randy Bliss, push open the front door to The Bateman. It wasn’t often that Rob lit the weed inside but tonight his arthritis was acting up something furious. He was going to need a toke or three off that strong weed to finish mopping the lobby floor. He watched the two white dudes waiting at the elevator, took two puffs off the joint and then replaced it in the brim of his beat-up old Fedora. Following this, Rob lifted the mop from the bucket, dropping it into the ringer. Squishing out the excess water he dropped the mop head onto the black and white checkered lobby tiles, feeling the pain in his joints go mad on him.

“Hey,” Randy said when he saw Rob mopping.

Rob grunted. He didn’t care much for the guy’s bright colored sweaters and white boy afro. Maybe it was a built-in hatred...


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