September 1

Empty Chairs at Empty Table


Bill proceeded to spend his night after work turning the empty table and empty chairs in his crowded dining room into something spectacular.

It was nine o’clock at night when Bill opened his front door, took off his coat and hung it on the coat hanger. Bill entered his kitchen, and opened the refrigerator answering the call of his empty stomach. He took out a loaf of bread and a container of butter. He closed his refrigerator and turned his head to his dining table.

If the people of his neighbourhood were silent for once and listened carefully, they would have heard the soft sound of the loaf of bread as it dropped to the ground and the clang of the container of butter as it also hit the ground. Anyone who was listening would hear that the bread dropped first, ever so slightly. However, no one had heard because Bill’s neighbourhood was a noisy one. He lived on a street, where the one-story houses were all cramped up one against another. Anyone who came across this neighbourhood would see the different coloured houses ranging from violet brick homes to Bill’s own red brick home. Bill loved the colour red. The red throughout his home helped Bill control his breathing. Bill often found it hard to breathe because there was no empty space.

It came to be that Bill dropped his bread and butter, for his dining table was empty. The chairs were empty. The table was empty. Bill tilted his head, a peculiar look on his face. He thought the table had been crowded with objects when he’d left the house in the morning. He must’ve been wrong.
Bill sighed and headed back to his refrigerator. He opened it and collected a bottle of beer and a block of chocolate. He headed over to his dining table to alleviate its bareness but clang- tripped over the loaf of bread and container of butter. If his neighbours were quiet they would have heard the clang of the beer as it hit the carpet, bursting open and soaking the red carpets strewn across the dining room. Bill had forgotten he’d dropped the bread and butter. He needed to be more careful next time.

Bill sighed and decided that placing food on the table was too difficult of a task. Instead, he headed to the pantry to collect some covers to place over the empty dining table. He wanted the table to look nice if ever anyone came over. Not that they did or ever would. His neighbourhood was too busy being noisy to join him in the silence of his home. Bill opened the pantry and looked at the choices before him. What colour did he want? Bill chose red to take his mind off the soaked red carpet that the table was on top of. Bill closed the pantry with the red covers bundled up in his arms. As he turned part of the cover fell to the ground and Bill accidentally stepped forward, his foot stuck in the cover and rip went the red table cover as he fell onto the soaked red carpet beneath.

He rubbed his fingers against the carpet. He could feel the wetness upon his fingers and could feel the rough prickly surface of his carpet. He could smell the pungent smell of the beer. He could almost taste the beer soaked into the carpet, his face against the ruined carpet, upon which the ruined table cover and abandoned food also lay. If his neighbourhood were quiet, they would have heard the loud rip of fabric, and the bang as Bill once again collided with the floor. Only he was too aware of falling this time round.

Bill sighed. He got up, dusted himself off and surveyed his surroundings. Abandoned food lay on the ground, ripped red table covers too (mind you they were his favourite) and beer was soaked into his favourite red carpet. What really irked Bill though, were the empty table and the empty chairs.

Something must be done about it, he thought. Bill decided he would collect some cushions for the chairs, so that if anyone ever visited him their bottom would be comfy. Not that anyone ever visited him. His neighbourhood was too noisy for anyone to ever take solace in the silence of his home. Bill went to his other pantry which was directly behind the empty dining table. He opened it and surveyed the choices before him. This time he decided to go with red cushions, but with a floral pattern. The red cushions were decorated with roses that were so red you couldn’t see them, because the entire cushion was basically red. The completely red cushions would make up for the ripped red table covers and the soaked red carpet.

Just as Bill was about to place the red cushions onto the empty chairs, he realised that there were no cushions for his couch. He couldn’t remember why, but the couch took precedence. So Bill took the red cushions into his living room and put them in place upon his red couch. The living room was Bill’s favourite room. It was completely red except for the black television screen. Bill enjoyed watching gory films on television with the red of the room emphasising the blood upon the screen. For once, when Bill would watch films the noise of his neighbourhood would actually help to heighten the sound from the film, making the experience all the more better.

Bill sighed, wishing people would come and watch films with him rather than make so much noise outside. Bill couldn’t think. He headed back to the kitchen and the dining room. He sighed extremely loudly realising that there was still the matter of the empty table and empty chairs. Bill grew frustrated. He decided to finally fix the matter by placing a candle upon a stick onto the table. That way if anyone ever visited his home they would be met with a romantic evening. Not that anyone in his neighbourhood ever wanted that type of silence.

Bill headed to the pantry, cautiously stepping around the food and table covers, his feet soaking wet from the beer still seeping through his favourite red carpet. His feet smelled of beer. Bill grabbed the candlestick with the white candle from the pantry and carefully made his way to the dining table. Before he placed the stick on the table he quickly dashed back to the kitchen to grab a matchstick. Bill lit the candle with the matchstick from the top drawer of the kitchen. He had to waste three matchsticks to get it lit. The matchsticks that he used he let drop to the floor. This time he didn’t hear the sound it made as it dropped to the floor. Probably because of how noisy his neighbourhood was, as usual.

Once the candle was lit, Bill headed to the dining table. He was cautious of the mess around him. He didn’t want to risk tripping so he bent down to put all the food and the table covers away. As he first grabbed the container of butter and rose with the candle in his other hand, he lost his balance.

Bill wobbled to the left and Bill wobbled to the right.

If the neighbourhood had been quiet they would have heard Bill sigh the loudest sigh anyone could ever sigh, and they would have heard the sound of the candle hitting the carpet with a clang, erupting the room into flames with a big whoosh. The flame of the candle caught fire on the beer soaked in the carpet, and continued as it ate its way through Bill’s favourite ripped, red table cover. Bill could only watch as the room and his home around him melted from his vision. It all turned into a blazing ball of red. If only Bill had someone over. They would have stopped him from all this foolishness. Bill coughed as the smoke suffocated him and as his body was licked by the flames.

Bill sighed. Bill sighed until he could sigh no more.
Bill’s neighbourhood was a loud one. Bill’s neighbourhood continued to be loud, long after Bill had left the neighbourhood. People would walk by the ruins of his home that were never rebuilt. People would talk, and merely glance at what had once been a tall one-story home with red bricks, now reduced to nothing. People would talk as they walked by the home. Only a few people would pay close enough attention to the home in ruins, to see all that was left of it. Those people would sigh whilst the others talked and talked.

Those few people would see what Bill saw in his last moments of life.

They would see the empty chairs and empty table.

Category: Zohal | LEAVE A COMMENT
August 11



He reached for the railing and fell. The railing failed him and he fell and broke a femur and it hurt and the doctor set it and told him to stay off the femur until it healed and he did.

He one day opened a can and ate what was in it. The contents were not in need of being cooked, he did not have to cook the contents, so he could eat what was in the can without using a determined degree of heat. The can’s contents tasted fine without heat and the instructions for preparation were very clear. Open the can and consume the contents. No heat needed. Just a fork. Or a spoon if you prefer. The instructions did not indicate what utensil to use but it was an unstated instruction.

When the contents were depleted from the can he dropped the emptied can into a half-empty larger can used for filling trash. The can was in the trash and he closed the lid.

In his typical manner he sat in a chair post-consumption. In his typical manner he ate standing up. In a typical manner everything made sense until suddenly something would happen to cause a nonsense abstraction that transformed the sensible realm into a confused mass of warped mental atmosphere which for him lasted weeks into months.

The femur was fine now and he called the doctor who said he could disregard staying off the femur and in essence run free. So he did. He ran free and the femur felt fine and running free made him feel free of the once hurt femur. If I could run like this forever, he thought and though he thought this he knew it would never be possible since forever was in no way typical of his manner.

August 2

Blood Poison


I shaved the heads of all my seven children. This made it far easier to tattoo them, and I’m not a tattoo artist so I appreciated the advantage offered. On the head of my oldest son I tattooed the name Tyler. On the head of my oldest daughter I inscribed in the flesh the name Helena. On the head of my third born I wrote the numeral 3, and so on from there because I had not gotten around to naming the rest. The process took a long time and they were all late for school, so I beat them with a wooden spoon and sent them to their rooms. It was only a matter of hours before each had gelled and could be served to my guests guilt-free.

A clatter at the window; my buddy Rabe had come over to invite me to shoot bee-bee guns. He’d shot the sill as a prank, the scamp. I snuck out the window, leaving my guests to figure out how to eat the gelled children all on their own. Rabe snorted like a pig and danced in a circle; he was happy to see me.

A group of scarecrows was standing around doing nothing, like a bunch of fags. We ducked down behind a couple bails of hay and took aim, shooting the scarecrows all over their tatty bodies. They didn’t do anything about it, like a bunch of fags.

“I got a idea,” I told Rabe.

“What’s the idea, geniustein?” he asked as if he didn’t believe I had an idea at all.

“Let’s recruit these fags for our baseball team,” I said, and Rabe seemed to agree that that was an idea, so we went to work sticking baseball cards into their clothes, filling them out with these collectibles mixed into the hay, their vital essence. Once they had become baseball players, infused with the vital essence of the cards, they started running and pitching and hitting. But they refused to join our team. They said we had nothing reasonable to offer them and refused us, like a bunch of fags.

“Shit, it’s time for my vitamins. I got blood poisoning on my father’s side,” Rabe said and evaporated. I held my breath because I didn’t want to inhale him. Having your best bud in you is disturbing and I vowed never to let it happen to me again. Once, my pet mouse Sylvain Sylvain crawled into my kidney during surgery. The veterinarian was frantic to find him because if he didn’t finish his surgery Sylvain Sylvain might die. But he didn’t die; he simply fused with me in the way some sports fans eventually join their teams. When I thought about it I’d try to push cheese into my urethra as a treat and root for the local sport’s team, which was now accepting scarecrows. Rats!

“Damnit, it’s time for supper!” I had to rush back to my house, which was now at the store buying pirated VHS tapes of the origin of the universe. He was hungry for supper, the little rascal, and ate up almost every inch of food I had to offer. “Just like babies, these houses,” I informed a homeless man defecating in the aisle of the store. “You don’t want to waste your time on them, unless you like babies. And who does?” The homeless man, who was probably Portuguese, ignored my words and handed me a sausage of indeterminate variety. I watched the pirated VHS tape frantically for a clue about the sausage’s origin. After much scientific analysis, I determined it was a Portuguese sausage and retrospectively labeled the man a Portuguese. Was this a mistake? I wondered about it for quite some time, while I rolled my house back to my property.

The local meteorologist observed my strange journey. “I’m all mixed up!” he said and laughed, enjoying the trip quite unseasonably for a weatherman. When I finally got my house home I checked the National Security Meter and found that Portugal had not declared war, so I was safe in my assumption the homeless defecator was a true Portuguese. I was generally fairly safe, even though the weatherman kept trying to set fire to my belongings. Luckily, my belongings were severely retarded. So the flames licked what was left of the house’s supper. “Don’t get too greedy, now, you rascals!” I told them. The flames spelled out the words to a song yet to be written about my death, seriously fucking with my head.

July 29

improve your life substantially by engaging in the activity suggested by the following text


PART I- I was reading something the other day about, well I don’t remember

Chapter 1: Prologue
Why people would wait for something to happen when they know perfectly well it won’t

Hey, hold on a second.

Uh, okay: some guy decided to live “intentionally” or something and was earthy or something and was a beautiful, complex, and fragile creature and all that.

Meanwhile, I guess there was some other guy, who worked in, like, let’s say an office. He also had some interesting or relevant qualities, though, I’m pretty sure.

Now, between the two of them, they each understood some things that the respective other did not. About life or something. Then there was like some big other, too, just for contrast, or possibly for some other reason.

Their stories intertwined in some way or other and they both came to see something about themselves; each other; and about life in the process. I don’t know, maybe they were brothers, too.

Chapter 2: Our Story Continues

PART II- A Journey of personal discovery

Chapter 3: The time I went somewhere, but changed slightly just to condense things

He felt something when he went down to the baggage claim, when he was out among all of the people, the car drivers with their signs and other humans waiting for family members or for friends which made him feel alone, but the good kind of alone, where no one notices you, and when he got his bag and stepped through the doors he noticed it was warm, that the sun was shining; and he was alone but the people were actually warm too, though. he was used to it this time.

last night he had been drinking with his friend in chicago and had stumbled up the steps and had gotten on the plane and now he was a bit tired, but a good tired, he was visiting his friend.

Chapter 4: So yeah he went and visited his friend and it was fun or whatever

PART III- You have to try to do something I guess, I mean apart from waiting for death.

Chapter 5: Sorry
I don’t want to write, I don’t want to do anything, not even drink, and you don’t want to read this really but you are so bored or something that it is better than going out and trying to look like you care.

Chapter 6: I feel … well okay really.

PART IV- Now what?

Chapter 7: And so on.

July 24

The butterfly


I gave my grandmother a butterfly. Silver with magic beads .With a little zipper on top. Unzip the zipper one will find coins long worn from time.ordinary coins nothing special .

Years past i found a magic butterfly .I remember it. I gave it to my grandmother. We sit looking at the butterfly and crying .Why we cry i understand ,the little girl who gave her grandmother a butterfly died,she’s gone forever . I didn’t give my grandmother that butterfly.
A young girl who believed in magic and fairies did . That child is gone she wount return for time has drowned her with age with knowledge and logic.

Now sits a woman with a family of her own .she loves her grandmother but not with the love of a child . And most of the time a woman’s love to her grandparents is mistaken for ignoring and forgetting them.

July 18

New Tales of Terror


The new story from G. Arthur Brown, author of Cracked Time, The Silky Ice, Hollywood Forgot the Death, Roses of Secret, The Predator’s Danger, The Slave of the Eye, The Music-Box For the Devil, Flames in the Valley, Azure Edge, The Vacant Witches, The Force’s Ice, Infinite Hunter, Evil Genome, Undead Cube, Seven Monster For Invisible Grave, Adventure is Strange, Out of the Delicate Devils, The Damned Dimensional Affair, Chain Magic, The Sucking Petals, A Big Lightning At Captain Nemo, The Scientist that Must Not Fight, Elysium Without Mad Birds, Brothers is Muddy, The Revolt In the Phantom, Lovely Witch, The Secret Mechanical Fog, Pirate in the Drapes, The Revolt In the Phantom II: Doctor With Vampiric Inheritance, and The Shades of Ancient Space Men:

Lawrence was an author of genre fiction. He lived alone, somewhere in New England.

He sipped a fine cabriolet and looked at his typewriter.

“You know, typewriter. We’ve written a lot of stories together and most of them were just to fulfill deadlines for publishing slots to maintain my position as a midlister living month to month, trying to stay sane.”

The typewriter wrote a short message back: YOU SUCK AND I HATE YOU. KILL YOURSELF, KILL YOURSELF.


Lawrence awoke in a panicked sweat. He panted and turned on the bedside lamp.

“By God, I know what my next book is!”

The lamp flashed back to him in Morse code: OH NO YOU DO NOT YOU HACK STOP KILL YOURSELF STOP


The lamp woke up and snuggled close to the typewriter.

“I had a bad dream. I dreamed we were the pawns of a genre writer and weren’t in control of our own destinies,” the lamp said.

“Oh my,” the typewriter replied. “I dreamed YOU SHUT THE HELL UP SO I COULD GET SOME DAMN SLEEP!”

Outside the bedroom window, a genre writer masturbated…

July 16



Why should I say anything, Tammy said, stroking back her hair as Walter watched the TV. It never moved, the TV. It was always where it should be and always it would. Walter watched the TV every day and on weekends when there was nothing to do he watched it some more. It was as if Walter’s watching of the TV was to some extent a secondary occupation but without the pay.

Why don’t you say something, Tammy said, but it was not in the form of a question. Walter looked up from the TV and gave Tammy a look. She stroked back her hair again, this time more forcefully, then turned and left the room leaving Walter and the TV to their own devices.

What are you gonna say, Walter said.

The TV said nothing more than what it could say.

July 8



Mrs. Wilkins left the office at five. She had worked there for more than twenty years. When she arrived home she undressed and made some tea. She also warmed some leftovers. Upon loading the dishwasher she turned on her TV and reclined. The night was over for Mrs. Wilkins. Just as it has been many nights after she has left the office at five to come home and make some tea with warmed leftovers. When Mrs. Wilkins speaks and no one listens it is because she lives alone unless the faces on the TV count. But what is TV to Mrs. Wilkins. What is TV to anyone.

July 7



Hey Barb, come look at this story I’m watching!


I don’t know the name of the story. I missed the first 10 minutes, but its stars Arnold Schwartz and the N word.


No, no, the governor with the name with the N word.


I’m talking about the governor of California, the one that’s married to that Kennedy girl with the Jewish last name.


No Maria Shiva!




That’s because he’s married to Maria Shiva. That’s why Bruce Willis wrote that song, “Born in the USA” as a hint to him.


He’s not Governor anymore. I heard he wants to make movies again about his wrestling career.


Yeah, did you know he was the star in all the Exterminator movies?


Mad Max and his Thunderdrone army.


Ok, we can rent it from Paper View.

June 30



Hey Barb, come look at this movie I’m watching!


Oh, I’m not sure, I missed the first 10 minutes or so, but it’s good


It stars that guy that looks like Jimmy Depp? His movies are always good


Jimmy Depp! The guy in Pirates from the Caribbean


Yeah him, Robert Browning Jr’s brother


I always mix them up


Well those two cops in that car are apparently up to no good, and that guy there in the black sweater, I think that’s Bruce Willis, is some kind of vigilante against crooked cops I think


Ooooh! The black cop really got aced


No, the vigilante guy!


Oh crap, a girl’s in the back seat, she shot Ban Diesel


Her name is Julie Roberts and that woman is not the same body shape


That’s not her. That’s Halle Barry