Archive for October, 2013


Bann – 23

Bann kissed each of his sons on the cheek. “My sons are magicians without magic. You owe them a thousand wishes for this. Twice, they have saved your life.”

“Nobody saves my life.” Arkin frogged off the throne. “I have the power to save myself and the knowledge to never need to. I am God with a human face.”

Bann touched his sword handle. He’d kill the Mystic and his priest now. But then what would come of his children? “I’m sorry, Arkin. I’ve overstepped myself.”

“No, you’ve stepped over us.” Father Tillicum tightened his cassock, shifted the yarmulke on his head. “Your words will not always be forgiven. God doesn’t always have to forgive.”

What would happen in the future, though, Bann hoped God would forgive.

The priest circled them, stared at the woman that had been brought from the brothels. Lipstick sat around her eyes. “What is your name, woman?”

The harlot held out her hand. “Coin.”

Father Tillicum fished into his pocket, placed a gold coin in the woman’s palm. “What is your name?”

An ugly smile bloomed on the harlot’s face. She closed her hand around the money. “You can pick my name,” she said.

The Mystic tugged on his beard, then came down the steps to smell the nameless woman. “She is no virgin,” he said, as if he could tell that by just a sniff. “And she is repulsive. I’d more readily fuck a cow.”

“Ugliness produces beauty just as often as beauty does,” Bann said, and he took his hand from the hilt of his sword, tucked them under his armpits. “And a cow cannot reproduce human offspring.”

The people to the south had only recently found that out. Last week a few wives had slaughtered and burned fifty cows because they thought the animals were stealing their husbands’ semen. Bestiality had become much more accepted in recent years. It was good that animals hadn’t yet evolved to bear human children.

Again Arkin sniffed the woman. “How many times will I have to fuck this disgusting creature for her to grow?”

The sun waned in the sky. Bann wondered how much more time his daughter needed to complete her task. Time didn’t enjoy being slowed by the hands of men. Only in men’s minds did time change tempo.

“If you keep turning back the hands of a clock,” Damyn said, “it’ll be like you only swam inside of her once.”

Hard, Bann hit his son over the head. The bastard had spoken out of turn.

Nevertheless, the Mystic cackled. “Your son has his testicles in his throat, Bann. I love men who make thoughts move.”

Then Bann hoped the Mystic would love the next move.

As you probably know, hundreds of thousands of writers sign up for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) each year — essentially volunteering to write one 50,000-word novel from scratch in a month’s time. That’s a lot of writing for authors who may want to participate in NaNoWriMo, but are running short on free time.

In November 2013, Grammarly will throw its hat into the ring — but with a twist. We plan to organize the largest group of authors to ever collaborate on a novel; we’re calling the project #GrammoWriMo, and we’ve published a blog entry here to provide additional information on participation.

If you’re interested in signing up or just simply want more details click on any of the above links.

Eschatology Part I: In Death

Posted: October 13, 2013 in Poetry
Tags: , ,

Darkest of days

when sun mates with moon

but there isn’t just one

there are two


Women shoot arrows at the sky

men pound drums and chant


Atop a mountain

two lovers

throw themselves into the abyss


In the alley

a knife

twists like a doorknob

taking a man’s life


Across the desert

mothers mash

the ashes of their dead

into their lunch


And I’m there too

living the life of a thousand people

all at once


22 – Jordan

“Why’d you let them kill that child back there?” Damyn asked, as they climbed the stairs of the largest brothel in the city. Today, it was the quietest brothel in the world.

“They killed a child?” Jordan only remembered the death of the woman. It was harder to watch a murder than to read about it. First his stomach had felt sick, but now the sickness in his stomach felt ill. His head didn’t feel right either.

“Yeah.” Damyn tapped him on the chest. “They killed that boy.” “At least it wasn’t a girl,” Jordan said.

His father had always told him it was worse to kill a girl. Boys deserved to die in war; men expected to. Girls and women were only expected to pray and get raped. Those were the war laws, when war laws existed. These days everyone expected a knife to the throat. Nobody liked anybody. They didn’t even just pretend.

Quicker, Damyn climbed the stairs. Jordan lagged behind, wondered what it would feel like to kill a person, not just watch a person die. Worse, his stomach told him. Much worse.

“We’re looking for a girl.” Damyn’s voice came from above, echoed off the walls. “She doesn’t need to have a pretty face or a fit body. She just needs to look a certain way.”

At the top of the stairwell a door was open. Jordan walked through it. The bastard was spanking the Madam’s ass.

“Do you want another girl or me?” the woman asked.

Jordan stopped any further spanking. “We need a specific woman,” he said. “Dark hair on the lighter side. Eyes the color of grass or leaves or emeralds.”

The Madam straightened off the table. She had the face out of a nightmare, pale and wide-eyed. And none of her teeth had a tooth beside it. “I have one slut like that,” she said, licking her lips. “But you’ll have to spank it out of me.”

Damyn grinned. Jordan moved aside.

*  *  *

“I don’t really know what her name is today,” the Madam said, once they entered the stables. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it was something different yesterday.”

Horse and manure became the air.

The woman rubbed her backside. Perhaps Damyn had spanked her too hard. “My best worker,” she said, as a horse neighed. “You wouldn’t believe how many women come in here wanting a real stallion inside of them.”

Jordan could believe that, actually. As many people were married to animals as they were to humans in the city. Last year, marriages between humans and animals outnumbered those between human beings. Many came to the brothels for their first encounter with another species. These animals were well trained for sexual encounters with humans, if such a training were possible.

Bestiality had become so widespread that husbands slaughtered dogs for just looking at their wives. Supposedly, the Dancers of Paradise could somehow copulate with their pet snakes. And rich lords and ladies paid good money to see such sights, Jordan knew. These days, everyone bored so easily that they needed something new to stay entertained. Intercourse between humans and animals was that new entertainment.

Once they walked past more horses and dogs and goats, Jordan started to wonder if the slut were, in fact, a slut and not an animal. Relief entered him  as soon as he saw a woman, even though she did have a face reminiscent of a wild mammal.


21 – Jordan

“Won’t we go to hell for this?” Damyn asked, unbuttoning the top of his shirt.

With a hand, Jordan shielded his eyes of sunlight. “Truly, we will go to hell for this, if there is a hell, bastard. Though the stench of this city makes me wonder if we’re not already there.”

Empty were the streets. Truly they were always empty on MILF’s Day. Everyone stayed inside fucking their mothers, and if not theirs, then somebody else’s. Jordan wondered what it would’ve been like to suck the nipple of his mother while grown, pushed the thought from his mind in shame. Family doesn’t fuck each other, his father had said.

If not for the Cult of Sigmund Freud, MILF’s Day wouldn’t even exist. That cult wanted a ban on all sexual acts outside of the family. Truly, they believed that sex should be confined to close relatives where all sexual acts could be deemed safe. So far, not everybody else had agreed. However, the Mystic was a great promoter of incest.

But with no living daughters the Mystic had to go outside of his nuclear relationships to mate. Though why Father Tillicum had picked Jordan to find a womb he’d never understand. And why the head priest had picked a bastard to help with the search, he truly would never understand.

Damyn put his ear to a door. “Why don’t they have this same holiday for fathers?”

Jordan looked through a window and saw nothing but darkness. Curtains made sure nobody could peek in.

“It’s common knowledge that fathers fuck their children whenever they want,” he said. “Besides, fathers are the least important parent.”

“Yeah,” Damyn agreed. Then he kicked on the door. It didn’t burst open like it did in stories.

Jordan pushed the bastard aside, kicked. The door still didn’t budge. “We must be too young,” the bastard said. “Maybe if we curse at the door it will fall.”

Again Jordan kicked. Still nothing. “Knock this door down,” he commanded of the soldiers behind them.

Short battering rams in hand, two soldiers beat on the door until the hinges loosened. The soldiers barged into the tiny room. Soon after Damyn and Jordan followed.

An old lady was riding a boy who looked too young to have reached puberty. “Why ain’t you knock?” the woman asked, untangling herself from her son. She had hair on her armpits and vagina.

“Why aren’t you at the church observing the holiday?” one of the soldiers asked.

Only today the church had issued a new doctrine. Those who weren’t mothers were allowed to remain in their houses, but anyone who’d given birth had to convene at their local church for a giant incestuous orgy. The priesthood wanted to make sure that everybody was being holy on a holy day.

“Why ain’t you knock?” the woman asked again.

This time a sword thrust answered her. After a groan she died. The murderer removed the weapon from the carcass, wiped the blood on the soiled bed sheets.

“Hey, that lady was gonna pay me for fucking her,” the boy screamed, punching the soldier who killed her. So he wasn’t her son, just a street-kid that had run out of food.

“Was she?” the fatter of the two soldiers said, and he took the boy by the neck as well. “How much did the old lady give you?”

“That between me and her.” The boy patted his stomach.

It had become so dangerous to carry money in the city that most people swallowed their coins until they thought themselves safe of thieves.

The skinny soldier, the one who’d killed the woman, patted the boy on his head. “Well, you won’t need money where you’re going, boy. Do you know the punishment of recreational fucking on MILF’s Day?”

Damyn whistled. “Let’s go, you two. There is nothing left here.”

The soldier slid his sword into the ear of the boy until it came out the other side. “Let’s go,” he agreed beside a laugh. “There’s nothing left here.”