I write short stories every day in my gchat status,
then post them here. If that doesnt do it for you,
well I don't know what.

This Band Could Be Your Girl

Gonzo Woof (which he sometimes asked us to call him, according to Mr Box) had a serious problem with the pollutants in your average bag of Cheetos. And I don’t mean they made Woof sick the way they made everyone sick because they were made of mercury, saline and fish heads; I mean Woof could not get enough of this shit. I swear we could get him paid in Cheetos and he wouldn’t mind twice. They made him scamper; I don’t know a basilisk’s physiology but it was like hot damn, 15 bags of those things and we was up a wall. We had concern for what it was doing to him the way you feel about a dog eating garbage; you try to stop him but then he snaps and it’s not like he’s gettin sick, anyway.

When he wasn’t eating Cheetos he was eating pigeons, which was harmless and I guess we could have hired him out as an exterminator if we’d wanted, but we didn’t stay in one place long enough to get a toll-free number. Woof was like a really fast sloth; he was probably much happier upside down, looking down at you with his mouth dripping feathers and cheetos dust. Woof and Mr Box was like living a game of chicken; they was with us until they tried to kill us or eat us, like; you might argue we felt bad for them as animutants had no place left to go after the gene-wars ended.

We’d woken up in the car out back of a seven-eleven about a hundred miles above the earth one afternoon and Woof was sprawled out in the back of our hydraulic sleeping, his hand full of lipsticks and Guru Fuck covered in Lime Crime (Guru Fuck does not wear lipstick except on mescaline) and Mr Box sort of sitting crouched on our back hood; the little guy was holding a wooden staff and an amulet glowing green and he looked at us and blinked one eye than the other, like this; and when a goat rabbit blinks his eyes slow like that and has no pupils you just kind of push the basilisk to one side and get driving and hope no one gets eaten.

We tried asking once where they come from and Box looks us over and says “Dont you know dont you know dont you dont you” and ran in circles very quickly. When Woof’s asleep he quotes us chapter and verse about the night we met them but it sounds like we weren’t ourselves, and all we know is we stay away from whatever the hell they put in Lime Crime.

Our Fucking Band Could Be Your Fucking Life (vol 2)

There were 9 of us driving a fucked-up 8 seater, an old hydraulic you wouldn’t have believed could hover, much less fly, but one of us had got it on cinderblocks and then up and running, I can’t say who because I wasn’t born yet, but I remember flying over the old cities, you wouldn’t know it but the smog was thin enough in those days to make each block an archipelago.

The centaur was Cil, and she was our Bob Dylan and our Henry Rollins both — she was driving the machine. She’d gotten her legs chopped by fucking choice during the transhuman riots, I don’t know what the point she’d made was but she made it all right, and had a lot of different legs and wheels and rotaries but the body she was known for was the fuckin’ centaur, and I’ve seen it live and up close and there’s no point in lying to you, you see a 9-foot butch with a ginger dreadlock mohawk staring down at you from the body of an android horse, you cream your jeans, there’s no other suitable response. 

Mufti was the other turning heads, she was a four-armed cyborg bounty hunter who’d met Cil in a bar when they both needed someone. Mufti had brought Johnny on with her — Johnny was an Aboriginal ex-surfer with a problem, namely the semi-sentient tape-eels that had taken up residence in his nervous system and digestive tract, giving him extra-sensory perception and a serious existential streak, but also no way to get ahead.

There was Floyd, he was the android butler proper - probably too square for our set and maybe just enough naive; he didn’t quite fit but who did? I forget where he came up from.

There was Cil’s personal Guru but really he just sprouted truisms and scored us drugs; we couldn’t stand him so we called him Fuck. He had one parlor trick where he could Ohm and float, and his beard was impressive but other than that he smelled worse and talked a total skeeze. Guru Fuck rode backseat and we couldn’t shake him loose.

There was Woof and Mr Box, and I’m not sure how to even lock down their function. Woof was a bipedal basilisk, sort of an ape-lizard with bad posture and Mr. Box was a goat-rabbit with a knack for shamanism; it kept him small and nervous. Both were what happens when it’s 30 years after a gene-war. They were serious lower caste, not even near-humanoid, but they kept to themselves and ate little. I think they just liked the comfort of numbers.

There was me and there was Laura. They called me Muscles, or Skin, or Face — I’m not sure where those others came from but the Face was because of my face. The bones growing out of it. I sand them down now, you hardly notice. But I was young then. You know how adolescence is on your damn bones.

There was Laura. She’d come up with Mufti, and made her weaker. We were all a little in love with her, and she deserved none of it. She reflected back our light. I remember sitting next to her on the front seat while Cil careened between skyscrapers. I remember her hair at sunset. I remember perfect times.

Keith McCleary (the website)

If you wouldn’t mind, I have a new website now. It needs clicking, and foraging for bad links, and killing of typos. Would you please to help? 

It could be worse, We could be vampires.

It could be worse, We could be vampires.


the text by gchatus


Thanks to mawbli for making this piece 1000% better.

Mary Tyler Moore

It was like she was living or trying to live inside The Mary Tyler Moore Show. Newsflash, hotshot — that was almost 40 years ago and I should know because I am almost 40. Its feminist ideals were built on a foundation of capitalist ideals, that a free marketplace could create equality, and it’s not that we disagree but more importantly, there is nothing free about our marketplace anymore.

You want to move to the Ozarks and find an identity for yourself in the middle of nowhere through being handed a job that no one wants, and through said job do you want to find both respect and self-respect? Good luck, pal. That job was taken by an intern in the time it took me to write that sentence, and it’s not because that intern is better or more privileged or spoiled rotten than you, because all things being equal it ain’t exactly like you’re hurting. Maybe as you age you also gain pride, and that’s why an intern beat you out, but that ain’t what’s important neither.

The thing is there is no Victorian house with a cute neighbor waiting for you to move in. All the Victorians around here are either sold or got put under the protection of the state. You throw your hat in the air all you want, friend, but it’s safe to say that we’ve gotten to a place in which the 70’s are actually starting to look pretty good, because at least then you weren’t aging and losing your teeth and sitting in endless heat on the internet waiting to hear back from the temp office. Back then it was better because it’s not like you’d been born; it’s not like you’d even occurred to anyone.

Between 20th and Square

It got late and the night was looking. The space had emptied out and we moved to the street, and it was cool and empty and the sounds were far off, in other parts of the city. Everywhere we walked was in a bubble of silence, at the point in the evening when all nights connected and found you, when time became a circle pointing inward. This was my place, where I returned to. Where I had found you. In daytime, minutes and hours passed. This wasn’t true, the ruse of chronology. It was this central stillness, where the starless sky stretched. That’s where I lost you. That’s the place you looked for and could not access. You tried too hard. You bought the wrong shoes. You ran too fast. You couldn’t allow for intersection.

No One Can Touch My Mad Mad Flow

In Seattle they found a motel and maneuvered DoDo off the tiny streets. They had delirious sex for days, I think. The girl was a mutant now; she’d been converted by the sewers and her blood wasn’t true anymore. She’d been the android’s latest bounty, but the android couldn’t turn in the warrant. Her love was too deep. She’d imprinted on the girl.

At night as she lay with her, she would look at the stars. At the full moon. At the way the galaxy sliced across sky in a gash. She was running with her now, they were traveling through the deserts. She knew she might leave her soon. She held her together as the stars bled.

She was in the doctor’s room again, watching him inspect her pieces. Seeing the lights of the room reflect greasy off his head, where the skin flattened. She was stuck in that room now, trying to remove herself and could not. Stuck inside it.

At night the coyotes ran and the far mesas hung in shapes against the night, glowing red. It was no longer safe out here, if it ever was, for the mutants stalked this world.

In Seattle they had shared beds, had gotten drunken as they ran. But the girl had become obsessed, had decided there was someone they must find, and that this someone’s name was Laura. The android needed someone too, but could not name him. She was only filled with a burning need.

The women had searched for Laura, contacting seers and oracles. They had sat with readers and visionaries with little luck. The girl had gotten lost. She had been lost. She was of a time in which she was always lost. The android thought she could understand this but she in fact could not. She was on a mission to follow the will of an adolescent, could not understand that every choice was molten and on fire.

Jesus Leon

We changed our band’s name to We Are Not Babes in Toyland and embarked on a vineyard tour. I’m sure this was widely accepted as a good idea. It was through the vineyards when the van crashed and we lost our driver, a Muppet lizard named Leon.

You’d think he wouldn’t have been a good driver, being a Muppet, and also because he crashed our van, but I would argue both were patently true. The two or three muppeteers managing his upper body would cram into the space under the wheel and have cameras on him so they could see how their movements played, and maybe it could be argued that at least one camera should have been trained on the road, or one of them should have been sitting up and watching the road, or just driving because what was this Muppet thing anyway are you trying to be cute.

Look it up, I’m not cute, Leon was a Muppet lizard on the Jim Henson Hour in 1989 and if you have that specific visual this story works. Anyway we didn’t crash because he was a Muppet, we crashed because it was a vineyard tour and he was drunk on wine. The muppeteers tried to keep him off the sauce but it was like he had nothing else, no agency. It was like he was felt and plastic with bones in the form of hands crawling inside his ass.

As we pulled him from the wreckage we promised we’d love him forever and never forget him. We changed our band name to Jesus Lizard and wrote a lot more songs. Someday someone told us this would be a problem but we don’t care! We Are Punk Rock!

The van broke down again outside Detroit, which is what they called Pittsburgh in those days. We all gave up and got jobs, made families, died poor. 

The Mouthbreathers

There were two mouthbreathers at the end of the yoga line. They did “yoga before yoga,” flipping around on their heads and falling over like well-muscled pelicans before the instructor even arrived. During the class they breathed heavily, trying every advanced pose the instructor suggested, falling overthemselves with loud grunts. One of them had a European accent and they both had funny hair. She wondered if the instructor purposely suggested impossible advanced poses just to watch them fall over. That’s what she would have done.