The Last Scrap (NaPoWriMo #4)

The Last Scrap

The Starship Calamity barrels on,
Her belly reeking from the bodies that decorate her deck.
Her operators travel the corridors as before,
Except they slide across the floor now,
Flopping through sudden stopping:
Once easily avoided obstacles interrupt
Tumbles toward further oblivion.
The Starship Calamity has a similar destination. 
Guideless space greets the craft as a friend,
But there is hunger in his handshake.
Through it all:
The scuffs,
The scratches,
The skirmishes that earned the Starship Calamity her name,
She is the last scrap
Of a suicide mission.
She is doomed to sail the sky
Until the universe decides
His own belly needs to reek. 

Shore Leave at the Big Top (NaPoWriMo #3)

Today's NaPoWriMo prompt suggested I write a sea shanty. I hope this serves! Even if it doesn't, I dig the rhythm. I'm pretty sure I'm going to become a sailor just so I can spread it around the world like a disease...you know, like sailors do... ;)

Shore Leave at the Big Top

(Hey-o, wey-o)
I got a pretty girl with her knickers down.
(Hey-o, wey-o)
Too damn bad she's a circus clown.
(Hey-o, wey-o)
But the pennies are pinched and the times are tight.
(Hey-o, wey-o)
So, a clown girl's all I can buy tonight.

Would you like a cuddle and a tumble and a sigh?
(I want a big red nose in front of my thighs!)
Would you like to barter off a garter when you lie?
(I want clown girls covering my face in pie!)


(Hey-o, wey-o)
I got a pretty girl with her knickers down.
(Hey-o, wey-o)
Too damn bad she's a circus clown.
(Hey-o, wey-o)
But the pennies are pinched and times are tight.
(Hey-o, wey-o)
So, a clown girl's all I can buy tonight.

(Shore leave at the big top will suit us right!)

Broke as Shit (NaPoWriMo #2)

As I'm typing this up, I now realize how appropriate it is that this poem is NaPoWriMo #2. Jeez, the first day I mention piss, and today I mention...well, you'll see. It must be all of the bizarro writing. My blog is starting to sound like a version of The Aristocrats joke.

Broke as Shit

From now on, my shit goes unpaid.
The lazy squeezes to consume the day
Waste only my time.
The smell of money is snuffed,
Leaving behind, Ramen and wine. 

There are no more pots to hide in,
No huge paychecks to pride in.
No more locks to hide logs on clocks.
Then again,
There are also no more obtrusive knocks.

Even poor, my seat will cool in summers,
Later, warm to ease my bummers,
I'll have no more questions on long digestions.
Now only
Long, luxurious Me-Time sessions. 

From now on, my shit goes unpaid.
Compensation can't come between companions,
Not two like us. 
A rowdy dream beats a whisper flush,
And the old days are down the drain.

It's a perfect fit that we're broke as shit. 

Paper Boats (NaPoWriMo #1)

HAPPY 2013 NAPOWRIMO!! Number 1, comin' at ya!

(Okay, that sounds like I'm going to pee on you. I won't. Not until you read my first NaPoWriMo poem, at least.)

Paper Boats

On a night river, the travelers release their paper boats.

Floating from dock-town desks, they seek to thicken souls over feet

And touch worlds beyond atlas edges.

That moment of disconnection—when paper is on its own—incites a frightful dance.

Although it was their intention, the travelers fear new docks,

Shaking in how raw their ships may seem.

How clumsy, how blistered,

How thin or desperate to sink.

In paper berths, they dispatch the pinkest pieces of their hearts—

To chum the water and wait.

Blood often calls the frenzy.

Tooth and tentacle can drag a vessel to its death,

But a tailwind can play the savior.

Once the craft has left its wake upon the world and returned to its dock-town,

The travelers know which libation to drink.

Wine tilts for praises.

Brine spills for razes,

And for both,

Travelers’ throats are again soaked in requests from a night river,

On which no paper boat has yet sailed in full mettle.

"Odds & Ends" this way wends

Hear ye Hear ye! Author Dustin LaValley and Artist Jody Rae Adams have put together a book that Raw Dog Screaming Press will release to readers for FREE!!

Pretty ballstothewallawesomesaucejones, right? (Just nod your head, and no one gets hurt.) So, without further ado, please enjoy the trailer for Odds and Ends, coming soon from Dustin LaValley and Raw Dog Screaming Press. 

* * *

Guns, Girls, and Tattoos: a book trailer for Odds and Ends
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S7hG6DRXoF4

From the Back of the Book
Prepare to be ferried to an unfamiliar realm on the bony back of despair. Author Dustin LaValley takes us down face first with rapid-fire flash fiction in the form of Odds and Ends: An Assortment of Sorts. Already associated with the dark and bizarre, LaValley expands his repertoire to experiment with form and literary introspection. These harrowing meditations on the nature of the world--and the very purpose of humanity--not only provide chills, but strangely the effect of this read is vastly disproportionate to its length, leaving us with scars to contemplate for a long time to come.

Advance Praise
"Extraordinary. Hauntingly poignant." -Thomas Ligotti, author of My Work Is Not Yet Done

Official Author Links
On Facebookhttps://www.facebook.com/dustinlavalleyauthor
Dust, In the Valleyhttp://dustinthevalley.tumblr.com/
On Twitter https://twitter.com/dustinlavalley

Malfunction (Brent Kelley's One Question Interview)

The following was written for Brent Kelley's blog. The author of "Chuggie & the Desecration of Stagwater" (which is awesome!) asked: You’re alone, cornered in a dark basement. Something horrible is upstairs looking for you, and it’s only a matter of time before it comes down those stairs. What is it?

What is it, indeed. >:) Please, enjoy my answer aka "Malfunction."

I'm afraid it will smell the gash on my leg. Even with a towel wrapped around the cut and half a bottle of Drakkar Noir soaking in, I've seen enough of the beast's talents to know the cologne won't be enough. If it had a normal sense of smell, I might have a chance. I might even have the courage to search the basement for an exit. Instead, I huddle deeper into a bulky mountain of toilet paper, my leg stinking of my first boy/girl party.

Truthfully, I don't have the energy for much else after running all the way from Denmore Labs. I'd hoped the beast would lose interest in me, maybe get distracted by a jogger, but it seems the technician who ran 10,000 volts through its body daily isn't an easy man to ignore. When I busted into a random house on Porter Street, I thought it might pass me by, even with the old lady screaming and smacking me with her knitting needles. But when I saw it through the curtains, its mammoth nose snorting at the trail of blood I'd left on the sidewalk, I knew it was over.

When the woman shouted, “Is that a cat on my stoop? I hate cats!” I was too busy searching for something to cover my wound to answer her. She would figure out soon enough that there are worse things in the world than having a cat on your stoop.

Any bloodthirsty animal would be enough to send someone diving into toilet paper, but this animal isn't just bloodthirsty. The mutagenic steroids administered by Denmore Labs for more than two years have transformed the tiger into a creature with the potential to be more cunning and deadly than the most talented assassins. It can be programmed to kill anyone in the world, and because of the mutations gifted by Doctor Denmore, a man I used to call a genius, this tiger can change its stripes. It can change its shape, its voice, and apparently, its allegiance. How the good doctor didn't see this coming, I will never understand. I can't call Denmore a genius anymore. I can't even call him tiger food; the beast shat him out back in the lab, in the very cage where it had spent the last two years becoming a monster.

The toilet paper isn't just a hiding place anymore. I need to use it now.

It snorts at the basement door, its claws clinking against the knob as it paws at the wood. It's only a matter of time. I didn't get a good look at the door before I locked myself in the basement, but I figure the beast will make short work of it, especially after seeing how easily it tore the lady of the house apart. I had ducked back into the living room to check on her, but the tiger had beat me to it. Her body was a used tissue in its fangs, ripping and spilling snotty innards onto her unfinished quilt. At that point, its claws saw no difference between the woman and her craft project. My doomed ass deserves no less.

The door splinters, and my stomach sinks. That's it, I'm as good as dead—and I smell like shit and Drakkar Noir. Yep. It's my first boy/girl party all over again.

An Arnzealous Tale: The Right Stuff (or, the Blessing of Fat Face)

First things first. GO HERE: http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/nathanrosen/michael-a-arnzens-fridge-of-the-damned-magnetic-po GIVE MONEY. BE RAD.

Until the end of January, super awesome indie publisher Raw Dog Screaming Press has declared it ARNZSTIGATION DAYS (days! days!). They've requested pieces inspired by the master of microfiction himself, Michael A. Arnzen. 

From Raw Dog Screaming Press: "Now through the end of January post a short story, poem, piece of art, excerpt from a longer work instigated by Arnzen or even a blog reflection on his influence. Then post a link here, on the RDSP FB page or send it directly to books@rawdogscreaming.com. I will share it through our page, our twitter account and collect the links in a permanent blog entry on the RDSP blog. This will support the cause and also showcase your project. Include  a link to the kickstarter:http://tinyurl.com/b4zkr5m. Invisible slimy bonus points to those who include some explanatory text such as: Be an instigator, support the Fridge of the Damned poetry magnet kickstarter."

Being a big fan, I decided to write a story inspired by Mike's story "The Curse of Fat Face." This piece really stuck with me when I read it in his collection "100 Jolts." If you haven't read the book already, what the balls have you been doing with your life?! 

Anywho, here is my story "The Right Stuff." It needs work, but at least it exists now, and I think Fat Face herself would be happy to know she didn't spend eternity in a jar on her mama's mantle. Although, I'm not sure her final destination was much better.... 

Either way, I hope you enjoy this slice of the McHughniverse borrowed from the Arnzenation. :D

The Right Stuff

or, The Blessing of Fat Face

by Jessica McHugh

Flat-Chested Charrie was a notorious bra-stuffer. In the beginning, she relied heavily on tissues and paper towels, but after watching her Bounty-filled bosoms shrink beneath the water hurled by girls in her gym class, she was always on the lookout for the next great stuffing. So far, she’d been failed by socks, peaches, even jumbo jawbreakers she’d won in a David Hyde Pierce lookalike contest. The closest she came to normality was in gelatin and pudding-filled balloons, but something about them never felt right. Beauty, still, was never abreast.

It seemed hopeless for Flat-Chested Charrie. She would never have a boyfriend. She would never know how it felt to be suckled by a man like that feisty goat at the 4H fair three years before (and once last year).  Staring at her naked body, at the ecru nipples that receded into themselves when faced with their reflection, Charrie pondered what she could fix.

She’d always been a skinny thing. Perhaps, too skinny.

For the next several weeks, no food was off-limits. Charrie watched in wonder as her ass expanded and her belly bowed under the weight of ambition. Shiny tracks of scar tissue joined the party, stretching across her body and meeting, with jiggling kisses, stripes of irritated skin on her hips where denim punished her flesh.

Her face spread, too, mocking the rigidity of other faces. Her chins waved like a pond struck by a pebble, and her cheeks echoed a bit of the splash. But as voluptuous as she became, as many ferris wheels had to be decommissioned due to her girder-bending heft, Flat-Chested Charrie remained flat-chested. In fact, her breasts took a tip from her nipples and also retreated inward, causing her empty skin to sag, cold and lonely as slaughterhouse cattle--but less desired. Clearly, that kind of fat wasn’t the answer.

While she waited for the weight to drop, she returned to old solutions. She’d never been a garish girl, which is why she liked wearing her bra ornaments so much. The hooks were always tricky to thread through her shy nipples, but once the large green and red balls were dangling from her chest, she felt a bit of her old spirit returned. Unlike tissues, the adornments were never at risk for falling out or shrinking, and thanks to a few layers of bubble wrap, breaking wasn’t likely, either. There was only was problem.

When Charrie exercised, the plastic rubbed against her sweaty chest, causing staccato squeaks. The other joggers stared at her, judging her. It seemed unfair when her stares were born of admiration. How nice they looked in their sports bras, the spandex hugging their breasts while still allowing a romantic bounce. It was a wonder she could see anything else, let alone the twinkle of a jar inside the neighboring house.

Sun on glass, that’s all it was. But it drew Charrie in like so much more. Her chest squeaked out a warning, but the jar of jelly lorded her mind.

“Can I help you?”

Charrie spun around to face ample breasts, their ivory skin prickled by the breeze. It took her much longer to see the woman who wore them. Flat-Chested Charrie didn’t know her well; just that she was over forty and lived alone. It was like looking into the future—except that future had nice tits. Mrs. Face stood akimbo, mail in hand, and looked down on the girl fumbling for any lie that would get her closer to the glowing mush.

“I’m selling cookies,” she said, but Mrs. Face said nothing.

“Pizza.” Nothing.

“T-shirts.” Nothing.

“Dildos.” An eyebrow raise.

“I’m selling lots of stuff,” Charrie said, her eyes focused several inches below Mrs. Face’s face. “I have a catalog I can show you girls.”

“It’s just me, dearie. My husband left when our daughter Fatima passed. Although, it feels like she’s still here sometimes. Her spirit, I mean.” A blush crossed the bulges above her blouse, and she nodded. “Okay, I guess I have a few minutes to look through your catalog.”

She had no plan, but once inside, Charrie’s concave chest led her straight to the mantle to inspect the jar. It was filled with what looked like pink mashed potatoes and pork. The consistency was similar to the pudding that had once filled her bra, but there was more texture in the jar’s contents, more life in the lumps.

“What’s this?”

Mrs. Face’s breasts sunk lower on her ribcage. “That’s my Fatima. Beautiful, isn’t she? She never thought so. She wanted so badly to be part of something beautiful.”

Flat-Chested Charrie understood, and like any sensible girl, she came to the conclusion that she had to help Fatima Face live her dream by living her own.

Charrie was nothing if not a desperate girl. (She had Christmas ornaments hanging from her nipples, for Christ’s sake.) So, when she eyed up Fatima’s stuffing, then the letter opener on the desk, only 1% of her plan seemed like the most horrendous plan ever.   

“So where’s this catalog?” Mrs. Face asked.

“Can I have some orange juice or soda?”

“I think I have some milk.”

“Okay, but I want a lot of it. A whole glass.”

Mrs. Face didn’t try to hide rolling her eyes as she left. Flat-Chested Charrie didn’t try to hide grabbing the letter opener and snatching the human gelatin from the mantle.  She tore off her top and unhooked her festive breasts, wincing through the violence. With the letter opener braced in her fingers, she gave the jar a good swirl.

Yes. It would work. All she had to do was make an incision.

The work was done by the time Mrs. Face entered the room. Holding the flaps closed, Chesty Charrie stood more confident than ever before, the empty jar lying at her feet. It filled with spilled milk as Mrs. Face fell to her knees, crying, “Fatima…my God…” When she looked up again, her tears continued to fall, but they no longer fell heavy. There was a new lightness in the woman, something that increased as Charrie neared.

 “She’s beautiful,” Mrs. Face whispered. “You both are. Thank you for this, my dear. How can I repay you for granting my daughter's wish?"

“I’m the grateful one. If you want anything, it’s yours.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Of course. What do you want?”

Mrs. Face wrapped her arm around Chesty Charrie, offering a simpering smile as she said, “The thing is, you’re representing my daughter now. And while you look a lot better, you still need to worry about your…”

Charrie didn’t need to hear anything more.

When it came down to beauty, there wasn’t enough human gelatin in the world.

The End