Brian Eckert

The old man unrolls his tent and looks at the directions.

“Let’s see,” he says. “Undergo pole elongation for support crossing…what kind of bootleg Chinese bullshit is this? Opening affixes from the nearby underhole make extend to opposition structure…Christ almighty!”

He throws the directions down in disgust.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have bought an 8-man cabin tent,” I say.

“I need my comfort. I’m too old for sleeping on the ground in a nylon sarcophagus.”

In addition to the cabin tent, the old man has brought a queen sized air mattress, a down comforter, 5,000 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, a memory foam pillow, a suitcase, a canister of bear spray, a 20 gallon cooler full of food, and a case of wine.

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I rented a car for the weekend and drove into the mountains.

Lately, the city had been getting to me, even more than usual. In the nearly ten years I’d lived there, the city had grown and changed beyond recognition. The growth possessed a purpose of its own, one that the city’s people were a means to.

Nobody was in control. That much I knew.

Snow clung to the mountain’s highest reaches, though it was well into July. The mountains were a reminder of the pre-human past. The city was a portent of the post-human future.

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I.

Ren McFarlan shifted the papers on his desk. He sat back in his chair and, unsatisfied, moved the papers back to their original position. He did this two more times before taking the papers and throwing them in the rubbish bin. Still unhappy, he called his secretary, Gina.

“Gina, I’d like you to shred these,” he said.

She left his office with the papers. McFarlan heard the sound of paper shredding in the next room. When it was finished, he opened a document on his 15” MacBook, selected “print,” and watched the pages cascade out of his laserjet printer, recreating the pile of papers he’d just destroyed.

Read the Full Excerpt at Expat Press

glahn hiss, it move through grass, very creepy into the rivulet he comes slithering but you do not see into the rivulet as he slithers up the bank bare limb all of the power of night to get him there to hang over and black skin nude in the sun, its light powering over him like cum that illuminates the morning.

What is cum?

The rays of the sun. Unlike the cum of the sun, the human cum (which is the same soul) has become defiled and lost its potency due to exposure. This positive potion is holy in the darkness of mystery. Looking at it is a slight to your soul.

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I received an invitation to my 20th high school reunion. How they’d tracked me down I did not know. There is no escaping these people once they set their mind to finding you. The breakdown of privacy meant, among other things, receiving a constant barrage of reminders about how you were getting old and had wasted your life.

Read the Full Story at Terror House Magazine

Every day the same question:
Why don’t I get in my car and drive straight into the heart of the desert?

Every night the same reply:
Because things that go into the desert go there to die.

Sprawling retirement communities attest to this fact. The bones of angels attest to this fact.

I wonder whether parts of the Grand Canyon floor even exist; I mean
if anyone has ever seen them.

It rains in my desert, contrary to popular belief. Long glorious rains that bring out the smell of 10,000 years of death and demon piss.

The flowers bloom briefly but brilliantly in my desert, on the edge of a canyon nobody has ever heard of, in a time that has not yet happened.

So help me god I will get in my car and drive straight into the heart of the desert,
just as soon as this ice age ends.