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Horror!Rat karkass 1/2016

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Kayla Bashetwitter.com/KaylaBashe 08

Beastheadsbeastheads.tumblr.com17

PJ Carmichaelpjcarmichael.tumblr.com11

Charles Dagenaissubstandardurbanism.tumblr.com03

Bob Dingnagianbobdingnagian.com09, 14

Greg Letellierwww.goodreads.com/author/show/8496625.Greg_Letellier04

Moviesludgemoviesludge.tumblr.com16

Stc019 www.facebook.com/stc019rouleenmob 10, 12-13

[Contributions]

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[Numériser {by Charles Dagenais}]

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[Tiny Monster {by Gregory Letellier}]

We didn’t want a child, we wanted a purpose. Far too many people get the two confused.

So, Max and I bought a tiny monster named 01110. He was about three feet tall, puglike in his features, but with little wings and the mouth of a ringworm.

Max, an accountant, hated tending to 01110. He hated chores in general–garbage, dishes, you name it–but he especially hated anything to do with our little monster.

One night, eating pad thai in bed, I poked Max and asked him to feed 01110.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Carol,” he said. “I’m tired.”

“You don’t think I’m tired? Who do you think spent all morning shoveling 01110’s shit out of Mr. Lincoln’s yard?”

Max sighed and rolled out of the sheets.

I could hear him talking to 01110 in the kitchen, trying to use a soft, loving coo, and that made me like Max a little more. It made me wonder, for the slightest moment, what kind of father he would be. Though my body was hostile to growing a human, I was told by my therapist that it didn’t hurt to dream. Which is why I switched therapists.

Then: Max screamed. When he came back in the room, his hand was bloody and mangled.

“We need to kill that thing,” Max said. “But first, 911.”

“I’m down to call 911,” I said. “But the monster thing, we’ll discuss.”

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“Carol. My hand.”

“Right.” I rolled over, grabbed the phone, dialed.

<>

Max insisted on shooting the monster. One bullet, he said, right through the old brain.

“How can you tell where his brain is?” I asked, scanning 01110 up and down.

“I can’t,” Max said. “So maybe it’ll take more than one bullet.”

Max was what you would call a “gun rights advocate.” He subscribed to gun magazines. He tried, on many occasions, to get me to take a handgun to work.

“No shooting,” I said. “Until we at least try disciplining him.”

“How do you know it’s even a him?”

We both looked at 01110, and 01110 stared right back, his tongue flopping up and down.

<>

The disciplining was useless. 01110 was a feral beast. We both lost sleep, staying up late attending to 01110’s destruction. We both acquired scars. The final straw was when 01110 ate the neighbor’s poodle: intestines first.

“He has to go,” Max said polishing his gun.

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01110 stared up at me. I picked him up, kissed his skull.

“Tomorrow,” I said. “And you have to be the one to do it.”

“My pleasure,” Max said, and his eyes lit up like a child seeing God.

<>

Max’s hand was healed. He celebrated his recovery by sucking back whiskey with his “bros.” He took to bringing his gun–a semi-automatic pistol, which he planned to use on 01110–everywhere he went. He even slept with it under his pillow.

His plan was to take 01110 out for a walk, and then, at the edge of the woods, fire as many times as it took. He enjoyed telling people that. He even bragged about the excitement of killing over dinner.

“Will this be the first thing you’ve killed?” I asked.

He erupted in laughter. “Fuck no. I’ve been a hunter all my life.”

Max got up, set his dishes in the sink. He kissed me goodnight and went to bed. I stayed up a little longer, looking out the window. 01110 was tied up outside, screaming at the stars. I knew if I let him go, he’d go on a killing spree.

It was then that I escaped into reverie. I imagined myself as the one tied up. My heart began to quicken. I lost my breath. I remembered how once, during an awful fight, Max pushed me to the ground. I didn’t cry or anything, but he did. He cried like a child, pleaded that I don’t tell

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Continued:

[Tiny Monster {by Gregory Letellier}]

anyone. I spent the rest of the night consoling him on his “mistake,” and ever since, we haven’t been the same.

I made my way to the table. There, forgotten, rested Max’s semi-auto. I picked it up, felt the weight of it, and in a moment of power, I marched to our bedroom.

Max was staring at the TV, his gaze locked on the screen. He was watching a show about female surfers. The volume was loud, yet I could still hear, in the distance, the shrill, murderous cry of 01110.

“Hey babe,” Max said, not averting his stare. “Think you could fetch me a bowl of chips?”

“Can’t,” I said, holding the gun to his head. “I’m busy.”

“Busy doing what?” he asked. He was focused on the TV.

“I’m doing what you wanted,” I said, pressing the gun to his skull. “I’m killing the monster.”

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[Under Candles {by Kayla Bashe}]

Blunt snarlball witchbaby falls through pine needles of effervescent cauldron dreams

Pumpkins decaying. Squirrels show teeth.

In the seep of cold water- a marsh-bubble scream. Tombstones are cold; she will be colder.

Have you seen this impossibility? Have you seen this girl?

Rise above town like a skeleton lantern. On the burning air of justice, blurring edges, twisting ice. She will shadow the moon.

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[Social Intercourse {by Bob Dingnagian}]

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[Fear of losing {by stc019}]

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[I Become {by PJ Carmichael}]

The better part of meis a point of view.

A windowsill with noplants, a room withno furniture, a paintingwithout paint, withoutcolor.

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[Horror Lover {by stc019}]

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[Beaten soul {by stc019}]

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[R played Football {by Bob Dingnagian}]

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[{by moviesludge}]

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[Padding {by Beastheads}]

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[Ratkarkass]

Beastheadsbeastheads.tumblr.com

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