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“It’s a waste of time lookin’ over your shoulder, Buck,” Pop said. “You already know there’s a herd of folk behind you, better’n you at what you do, just waitin’ to pound you under their hooves, another competitor bites the dust. Speed’s the key Son, which you got, and cleverness, which you don’t, but long as you’re out there smilin’ ahead of the pack, you’ll seal the deal and no one’ll know they got took till the herd come through, and then, chances are folk’ll just be plain confounded by all the blather and tell’em to get the hell outta town.”

Posted By Miss Alister On 05.15.2013 @ 1:39 pm

“Silence will ensue chaos!” the Dealbreaker said – the DB in pinstripes and adverse patterned shirt, tie, handkerchief and socks – floral, polka-dots, plaid, and houndstooth respectively. Does this mean he will be turning out in tan next? Or will he effect in those of us he promised to protect, a monochromatic aberration? I grasp at the colors I can still see and I seem alive – unless I’m typing this in an alternative existence – and yet my brain feels thick and slow and sucking down and down to the sound of the hound…

Posted By Miss Alister On 05.01.2013 @ 12:14 pm

As I begin my reading, the crowd claps in offset clops, plops of loose pads of flesh, and I dare not look up. I soldier on as the crowd claps with encouraging snaps of taught hands, and so I peek, see their claps are accompanied by amused looks that conflict with the nature of my words, and strobe light visions of at least finishing this debacle begin to stutter and they stop abruptly with a unison jeer, “The word is CLASP, you idiot!”

Posted By Miss Alister On 04.28.2013 @ 2:11 pm

Joe was a planter of peanuts, a Paraguay dirt king, come to Tennessee with his wife and pock-faced kids, farm hands all. They looked like peanuts, smelled like peanuts, ate peanuts–dry roasted and boiled—made peanut oil and flour and made a fortune. “Peanuts is the best thing God ever invented,” says Joe. “Next to peas and beans,” his wife added. Then one tragic day, their newborn went into shock after his first suckling of peanut milk. “Boy’s allergic to peanuts,” the Doc said. “You been foolin round, Wife?” Joe yelled. According to the DNA test, the kid was his but Joe had to deny it, lose his wife or lose his mind.

Posted By Miss Alister On 04.24.2013 @ 12:03 pm

It was a flat scenario all round, about a couple living near the Bonneville salt flats. He’s got a wife beater shirt on, hasn’t washed in days, stinks to high heaven. She’s pretending to be someone she’s not, has on a chic skirt with fine flat seams that she ordered over the phone from Macy’s. Now they’re flat broke. He’s had a few too many flat beers, wants sex. She gives him a flat refusal in a flat, nasal voice. He went flat against his promise that he wouldn’t do it again. At least it was over in 9.89 seconds flat.

Posted By Miss Alister On 02.13.2013 @ 11:44 am

Barry was just another hippy too old to be a hippy, growing marijuana in the back forty of his property in southern Oregon. He was just another enthusiastic collector of funky bongs and pipes and suncatchers and fun times…until he was struck by lightning and became enlightened and folks assumed that meant he’d be amenable to giving free advice. He spent much time lovingly explaining that the definition of “intensely aware person” is not “blithering idiot”…until their terminal insensitivity took its course and Barry saw that to kill one of them would bring him his current peace in prison, smoking dope with the guards and reading Nisargadatta’s “I Am That” on his back in his cell.

Posted By Miss Alister On 02.08.2013 @ 2:29 pm

Barry was just another hippy too old to be a hippy, growing marijuana in the back forty of his property in southern Oregon. He was just another enthusiastic collector of funky bongs and pipes and suncatchers and fun times…until he was struck by lightning and became enlightened and folks assumed that meant he’d be amenable to giving free advice. He spent much time lovingly explaining that the definition of “intensely aware person” is not “blithering idiot”…until their terminal insensitivity naturally doomed them and Barry saw that to kill one of them would bring him his current peace in prison, smoking dope with the guards and reading Nisargadatta’s “I Am That” on his back in his cell.

Posted By Miss Alister On 02.08.2013 @ 12:24 pm

Gerald left the mail room and headed down the hall. There was Verne standing by the water cooler. He tried to divert, but Verne had seen him. “Gerald!” Verne hollered, “How the hell are ya Buddy?” “Can’t complain, Verne,” Gerald said. “Say, Gerald, I got one fer ya: How can you tell when a salesman is lying?” Gerald grimaced. “His lips are moving.” Verne’s face fell then brightened again. “Bet you have heard this one: a salesman said to an office manager, ‘This computer will cut your workload by 50%’ and the office manager said ‘That’s great, I’ll take two of them.’” Gerald chuckled. “That’s a good one, Verne.” Verne glowed. Gerald gave Verne’s shoulder a pat and continued down the hall.

Posted By Miss Alister On 02.07.2013 @ 12:12 pm

Anne van der Veer of Glamour magazine had been sent against her will to Iron City, Georgia to interview Slade Bachman, the phenom auto body man and proprietor of Painted Ponies. Soon as she’d pulled up to the place and stepped her dainty heels through the dry red dirt, a sweaty Slade asked her if she’d like a beer. To be polite, she said, “Alright.” Slade banged on the side of an old Coke machine he kept stocked with beer, watched a couple of Buds tumble down and bounce into the tray. He grabbed them out and offered Anne one. She pulled the tab and beer sprayed all down her front. “Ain’t it great?” Slade said. Anne glared daggers at him, said, “Well, you’ve just answered the most burning question on the minds of America’s husband-seeking women.” Slade chuckled, “Yeah, they’ll be all over me now fer sure.”

Posted By Miss Alister On 02.05.2013 @ 11:04 am

You could jump that wall if you wanted. How you figure? I mean look at the height of it! I can’t see over it. You could if you wanted. I couldn’t, and neither could you, it’s way higher than you, even. Oh I could jump it in a single bound. And so could you. No. Look at it! BELIEVE, Nala! I do want to try, but I DON’T UNDERSTAND! Watch what the human mind is capable of! And with that Simon just walked through the wall. And there I was alone. It may be true, this thing about what you put your mind to and where there’s a will there’s a way, but I need it explained, detailed instructions, step by step, and I need practice runs and all, and Simon, he just ruined it for me, that’s NOT the way to boost my confidence! Now I will NEVER KNOW! He didn’t care! He just wanted to show off! I HATE him, I want to KILL him for this meanness, yes, I want him DEAD! Die Simon, DIE! And from the other side of the wall there was a groan and a thud.

Posted By Miss Alister On 02.03.2013 @ 12:07 pm

“It’s your baby, Slade,” Lance said. Slade just looked at the kid and filled his mouth with Budweiser. Lance fumbled around for a cigarette. “I ain’t got nothin’ to do with this shit,” he said. Slade sozzled beer around in his mouth. Lance said, “The Judge’s kid ‘bout did me in when I was tyin’ ‘im up.” He shifted his eyes from Slade to the flame in his shaking hand, said, “What you gonna do with that dead chick you found in the trunk of his car?” He’d just about got his Marlboro lit when Slade busted out laughing, sprayed beer everwhere, extinguished Lance’s cig. “Same thang you gonna do with that wet death stick hangin’ from yo’ mouth, Boy!”

Posted By Miss Alister On 01.29.2013 @ 12:02 pm

I was raised a visitor to Dry Land, thousands of acres of cracked earth with the occasional weed sprouting up out of it, and it felt like home ‘til I tasted the Wetlands, the next best thing to amniotic fluid that I’d found, not like I’ve been everywhere to look… I became a visitor to the Wetlands, went and raised hell there whenever I could, and naturally I retired there, found out what “too much of a good thing” means… Now I’m a visitor to the land of Inbetween which is comfy because I don’t know my ass from a crack in the earth…

Posted By Miss Alister On 01.28.2013 @ 12:57 pm

Don’t speak to me of the unattainable, the noumenon, the 1986 space shuttle challenger now missionless in the annals of easy querying, adaptive self-regulation already defeated by childhood conditioning, Cypher’s self-dooming drooling of steak juice and red wine on planet Matrix, Syd Barrett walking psychotic on the dark side of the moon… Speak to me of putting one foot in front of the other and getting through the day and that being deeply good, meaningful

Posted By Miss Alister On 01.26.2013 @ 12:16 pm

Go ahead and pull the trigger, I don’t need you now, only when I am in pain when I need you to enable me to create truths that seep into seeing minds and drain down their veins to the dregs of their existence and their souls rise up and sing praises but the wrong ones, I am just the messenger, I am not enlightened you silly fools! and you will but forget the revelations in one blink of your blind eyes! So go ahead attendant, pull the trigger and let the booby out of its hatch.

Posted By Miss Alister On 01.25.2013 @ 12:15 pm

I was given a catalogue of dark images to peruse, by hand, they held them for me, one by one, and as asked, I commented on each one, yet disinterested, indifferent, irritated yet obliging, it’s my nature, it tortures me, and then I saw the one, not shapeless, anomalous, formless blackness as were the rest, but more distinct, crystalline almost, and I had no word for it, but it represented a sort of divine absence of the weight of responsibility, and I snatched at the card, but they withdrew it from me

Posted By Miss Alister On 01.24.2013 @ 12:13 pm

I feel dead to life, have lost touch with the ether, can’t smell properly, I may stink and not know it, my orange juice tasted like detergent this morning, revelations come and then go before I can log them into my head full of holes like a sieve is meant to separate things and I wonder is it the drinking or is it genetic, and then the tinkle of the man peeing in the adjoining apartment seems as musical bliss and I join him in the endeavor and thus I have participated and am alive.

Posted By Miss Alister On 01.23.2013 @ 12:36 pm

It’s a must Jose. One thing must lead to another. Put into play one thing and that one thing will cause an avalanche of effects. So be careful of what one thing you choose. Furthermore, be careful regarding the mental state you’re in when you put that one thing into play. If, for instance, you put on a bejeweled black toreador’s hat, and a bear fur collar follows, attached to a garishly flowered-with-thistles ladies coat, and so on, your thinking has quite obviously been more empathizing than systemizing. Veer left, Jose, your testicles and your fans will thank you.

Posted By Miss Alister On 01.07.2013 @ 12:19 pm

As usual, at 6pm Zoe placed a glass of Nowhere on the garden table and sat down to contemplate it. It was full of emptiness, ultimately. What a pity Nowhere was so perfectly fruity, not like a dessert wine, more like a sweet Riesling but better. Zoe reached tentatively for the stem of the glass. With two fingers and a thumb she raised it to eye level. Isn’t emptiness itself a lie? Certainly Nowhere’s bouquet was full with melon, lemon, minerals and oh mercy, the promise of spice, of verve, of being invincible! The rim of the glass was just there, so close to her lips. She shouldn’t. But she succumbed, as usual.

Posted By Miss Alister On 01.04.2013 @ 9:15 am

It shows on that chick. Look. There’s nothing left. Her insides’ve been scooped out like roe from a sturgeon. She’s a casualty of the upper crust. Been bonked, slit open, relieved of her ovaries… Dude sitting across from her? He’s the one that said Grab a bellini and help yourself to the caviar! Yeah. Look at that chick now: she’s an anomaly, been sewn back up, allowed to live. But what a life: figuratively brainless, qualitatively speechless, socially inept, F-ing stoopid.

Posted By Miss Alister On 12.27.2012 @ 12:05 pm

“Hand me down my scatter gun Ginny, there’s a bald-headed, pot-bellied, man-shaped pig out in our back yard an’ he’s wieldin’…he’s weildin’ what looks like a bottle of hooch!” Ginny gasped. Luke! “No Papa, that’s Luke, father of my soon-to-be baby!” She clasped her hands over her mouth. Papa squinted one bugeye at Ginny and snarled. “All th’ more reason to blast ‘im to kingdom come. Cause he shouldn’t have come, not in my daughter, not in my back yard. Ginny chased after Papa. He kicked the screen door open, raised the scatter gun and took aim. Ginny screamed “NO PAPA!” but it was too late. Pig man was full’a buckshot.

Posted By Miss Alister On 12.21.2012 @ 12:45 pm

“Look! Only you can sate this lion’s appetite, Dave,” Elijah said. “You don’t mind dying for us do you?” Dave cocked an eyebrow, “Well yeah, I do, actually.” Elijah shook his head. “Look. I’m a Jew as are my men, and Jamal is a Saudi Arabian as are his men. You and your men are Christian and that’s what lions eat!” “Oh come on,” Dave said. “That’s archaic! This lion bearing down upon us wants flesh, ANY flesh!” “No, it’s a known fact!,” Jamal protested. “Toss one of your men out to him then Fool!” Dave yelled. “I bet he gets devoured right quick!” “No way!” Jamal yelled as he shoved one of his men forward, toward the lion. The poor man stumbled, fell on his face and the lion sunk his teeth into his neck and dragged him off to his pride.

Posted By Miss Alister On 12.19.2012 @ 1:05 pm

“Oh we’ll get our due alright,” Dickie said. “So do ever’body,” Bog said. “I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout Karma, fool.” “Ever’thang’s Karma, Dickie.” “You wanna eat, Bog?” “ Sure, Dickie.” “How you gonna, Bog?” “Well I dunno, Dickie, them berries yonder look mighty fine—“ “Listen Bog, we gonna git in, git out, no one’ll give a rat’s ass ‘bout a hun’ert bucks.” “I give an ass, Dickie.” Dickie grabbed Bog, “I’ll take it, fool,” and he set Bog’s ass over the campfire. “Cause I’m hongry!”

Posted By Miss Alister On 12.16.2012 @ 1:53 pm

You’ve got to learn the language of weird, man. And that would be… That, Bro, would be triptific verbiage like broken toes oozing tangoes from past, sad lives and spurring on half-dead bodies along the Thames, dipping in and swirling around one last mouthful of fast living, before fizzling out in the violent fandangos of the holy black tide. Whoa. I dig it. Sing it, Dude! Naw, man. Why you wretched fowler of syncopated blissternation, you naysaying browser of doomed babes in a vestige of Valhalla, a wunderland of dead gone mirthful Vikings come to reap your dread parts! Oh pop off your flap jack and dingle pling your jam dang, Assh*le! Righteous, Dude!

Posted By Miss Alister On 02.11.2013 @ 1:54 pm

They plays with my head theys do, theys tricksy theys is, bloody revenges, bloody for no other reason but bloody, cut-throat barbers, poisonous Andronicuses slitting, cutting, and severing throats, hands, and heads from necks, the roots of horrors runs deeps and gangly, underground, under the sea, under the radar, gruesome drones of dread, terror, atrocity… They plays with my head theys do, theys chops it off, theys kicks it about in theys Grand Guignol!

Posted By Miss Alister On 02.10.2013 @ 2:10 pm

Ancient triple frogs began to so rapidly overpopulate the Triassic period that they soon burgeoned 250 million years into the future. The first drove of them popped out of the Mississippi mud in 1943 and each new drove pushed the one in front of it further west until the first drove made its fateful appearance in 1944 at high tide in Monterrey CA, tails and all. Doc woke one morning to The Seer’s horn, lit a cigarette and saw them surging in waves up onto his deck, best thing that could’ve happened. Doc’s research paper made him the hottest marine biologist in 1945, same time as the ex-sardine fisheries began canning the new most sought after delicacy.

Posted By Miss Alister On 02.09.2013 @ 1:37 pm

Mack was a freckle-faced all-American boy pictured holding up undersized trouts in badly taken photographs. His mom and pop raised him to be a good Protestant, but it was too wishy-washy, so at 18 he broke the news he was going Baptist. That wasn’t militant enough so at 25 he converted to Catholicism, plenty of rules, but not the right ones. So Mack explored Fascism which led him to Politicism and now he’s ramping up to run for President.

Posted By Miss Alister On 10.18.2012 @ 12:44 pm

“Entrance the crazy bitch, Marlin!” Deaker yelled. The veins were huge and pulsing on his neck. Marlin held the fighting mad Gilly at arms’ length, observed her futile flailings. The matchstick in his mouth switched from side to side. “Well now, Deaker, as you kin see, I’m workin’ up my mojo.” Deaker gestered, “Well get on with it!” Marlin released Gilly and she bolted. He struck a pose and did his killer Billy Idol. “…Hey little sister who’s your superman?…It’s a nice day to start again…It’s a nice day for white wedding…” and Gilly froze. “Oh Deaker,” she sniffed. “Let’s do it!”

Posted By Miss Alister On 10.17.2012 @ 11:42 am

It’s a trap, it’s one trap after the other, a minefield – childhood conditioning. Born into the hands of unwitting programmers that maybe know the basics and botch the rest of the code or botch it all. Junk code in your head – I’m not good enough, I can’t, I’m small, worthless, helpless, incapable of any great feat – you strike out on your own tiptoeing to The End.

Posted By Miss Alister On 08.02.2012 @ 10:58 am

I am The Distributor! I have no imagination for writing books but I have imagination for devising all manner of charges to distribute your books: administrative fees, order fulfillment, shipping, commissions, collections of net returns and those are but the biggies, hahaha! Yes, I am The Distributor! And thou shalt salute me and call me “Daddy”!

Posted By Miss Alister On 06.26.2012 @ 12:29 pm

Soups R Us my gramma was. thanksgiving everything put in a blender til it become a soup. turkey soup cranberry sauce soup sweet potato green bean soup dinner roll soup mincemeat pie soup you git the picture. fifteen to twenty tureens of soup laid out in a line down the center of the white cloth like we was to partake of communion. always said a sort of grace ‘fore we began slurpin’: thankya lord an’ here’s hopin’ we don’ git the runs.

Posted By Miss Alister On 06.26.2012 @ 11:02 am