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

I Have a Terrible Desire to See Your Waste Disposal Facilities - Flash Fiction by Dermot O'Sullivan

Why are we so ardently attracted to the waste disposal facilities of other human beings? Or at least the holes: mouth-hole, nipple-hole, asshole, vagina-hole or cock-hole. It seems not to matter. With some negligible exceptions, we only truly like to suck on areas of the body that may at any moment leak some unpleasant fluid onto our tongues. Any section of the body that does not fulfil this prerequisite is deemed unworthy of our attention. What strange creatures we are!

In fact, so pronounced is our species’ preference for holes that we consider those who do not share this strange perversion to be perverts themselves. Think of the Peeping Toms, the toe-lickers, and knee-suckers of this world. We reserve for them nothing short of disgust. Indeed, we castigate them for their nauseating habit of nibbling upon feet, while we calmly and joyfully press our faces between urea-laced vaginal flaps, gulp down semen or worm our tongues into the faecal highway of our chosen partner.

The race of apes called man are unrepentant foramenaphiles. About the only aspect of this fetish that we consider unwholesome is when individuals attempt to endow the human body with more holes than it is usually fitted with, or when such apertures (or others which have come about for non-sexual reasons) are then co-opted as erogenous zones. I’m thinking of men who, unsatisfied with the usual line-up, try to endow the female body with more holes through the use of a knife, or spear, or some other pointed object (there is our counter-obsession with pointy things, the yang to our yin of a generally...


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War Machines and Chicken Farms - Flash Fiction by Michael Duda

There’s always been rumors about it. You’ll read them in any newspaper or you could listen to about a million plus one channels about it. But now, this happens. Who shot first? The pictures just show smoking grey metal and a sunny roundel bobbing up and down on salty foam waves in the South China Sea like smiling grandparents not aware that they’re about to take a drop on a county fair rapid rivers thrill ride.

The Boy reads an internet article that’s popped up out of the digital vacuum: Volunteers Expected, Draft Recruitment to Follow Soon. Who wrote this? It’s probably some kind of electronic mortar that glues popular conspiracies together. The text claims that those who don’t volunteer will have worse assignments. Much worse. This is the kind of thing someone wearing tin-foil party hats sings while do-si-doing himself on a D.C. sidewalk. Allemande left. Wrong way thar. Circle to a line. Now shoot the star. The Boy thinks that someone’s making the wrong calls.

He shows up at an air force recruiting office the next day, just in case. He doesn’t reveal his secret dream: the Boy wants to own a chicken farm. His secret fear: dying. Can’t raise chickens when you’re dead. “Will there be war?” he says and the recruiter smiles and says, “War? Our jobs are like flying a desk.”

At an entrance processing test site, the administrator seems casual about the whole multiple choice business. After all, only three of the four answers are wrong. It’s a game with pretty good odds. At first, the Boy...


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Next to the Last Stool - Short Story by Jim Meirose

Yes; went in, sat a while, had a few—and this guy came and claimed the last empty stool. It’s really okay and nothing to sit close, rubbing elbows with strangers, in a place like this. Just pay no attention, don’t hear what he orders, just sit thinking. As quick as he came it’s like he’s all gone, but then, after having a few, and some more, to get settled, he opened his mouth and spewed and overflowed out of his personal space.

—so, okay. Here goes; I know that—hey bartender. Straight vodka—

Straight vodka? Sure. Drank straight vodka long ago, right from the bottle. Not ashamed to say it. Blackouts were just, well, things that happened once in a while in the environment. That time and place way, way back. You know—the place brought me up. Taught mind your own business, too. Most times, the hard way. But, suddenly, his words stopped the thoughts that had come from last night. Yes, twenty four hours back, about. Why this place, not home, was right tonight. The thoughts swirled inside, and struggled to go on being heard, but here surged this stranger’s voice again. A wave over a brand new summer sandcastle, which, since finished, must now be eaten all away.

—he always comes back, but if this is the time that he finally does not, I’ll have died in my sleep peacefully, like anything ever born ends up wishing to finally do!

His shot glass rapped down. The sound came in settled and lay deep down. Didn’t come in the place to chitchat...


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