#alternativelit

[cavitymagazine]

𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔧𝔞 𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤

There’s a painting of it that you’ve probably seen somewhere. Pointillist. A dirt road and a cornfield. A parked green tractor. And, the imagery discordant, a dejected ninja slouching beside the tractor, staring down at his limply held blade as though it’s the ultimate substantiation of meaninglessness. This painting’s been reproduced, parodied, enshrined, and displayed all over the globe. It’s at the Detroit Institute of Art, presently, in fact.

Equation from a crypto-meteorological textbook:

91-101 kph [wind speed] + oblique, angular shadow systems [precise configuration/density: UNKNOWN] + misty [optional?] rain/overcast sky + uprooted bamboo trees and/or bamboo chips/strips/material [exact amount UNKNOWN] = ninjitstorm [perhaps]

Crypto-Beaufort Scale entry for ninjitstorm:

Beaufort Number: 10

Name: Chimerical Gale or Conjuror Storm

Wind Speed: 58-62 mph [91-101 kph]

Description: Considerable structural damage occurs; ninja assassins manifest

The homely Nebraska town of Sumner has a general store called General Store – it’s that kind of agrestic. People and corn. And more corn. Grain sacks. A poky video store. Grousing tractors.

Of course this uneventfulness is a late and lamented portraiture of Sumner: it is the way it was before the squall of gleaming katana.

One advanced afternoon in the mid 1990s it rains ninja on Sumner. Like homicidal hailstones, they somersault and roll and flying-kick out of tornadic funnels. Like armed sleet.

It marks the first and only occurrence of this phenomenon in the U.S. It’s a huge moment in Weather History.

Day 1: Chaos and horror. Eleven townsfolk are struck down; some livestock are poisoned by blow darts tipped with something more lethal than cyanide, others are gorily ornamented with shuriken. Green tractor paint obscured by arterial spray. Sumner’s roads go redly moist.

Law enforcement refuses to step in. Here’s an excerpt from the press release the Batch County Sheriff’s Department issued the day of the killer atmospheric conditions:

“While this department mourns the lives lost in Sumner this afternoon, the deaths, according to FEMA meteorologists, are no more ‘criminal’ than, for example, hurricane or mudslide casualties. We don’t arrest natural disasters; we don’t prosecute tsunamis. Sorry.

FEMA experts advise residents to stay indoors until a solution is reached. Crisis managers are in talks with Tokyo climatologists…”

Day 2: Terrorized townies hole up inside their houses and barns. Doors are needlessly barricaded and boarded over. (The aerial ninja confine their sneaky, homicidal industry to the outside world, in compliance with some meteorological principle only the atmosphere kens.) Sumner fathers cradle shotguns, uselessly. (Bullets have no effect on thunderstorms, squalls, or pneumatic assassins.) The town on Day 2 is ghostly and coiled, tense. Black-masked ninja zip in and across Sumner’s roads like darts: horizontal black blurs… a deadly twinkle of metal… then: gone. Hidden again.

Ain’t seen one all afternoon.

That don’t mean they ain’t out there.

My nephew googled it.

What’d it say?

Not much. Lingo for ‘em’s some Japanese word. In America they call ‘em Dudikoffs. Sounds Russian.

That don’t help, Carl.

Carl’s dumber ‘an shit on a post.

Eat me, Baker.

Ain’t never happened here in the U.S. Not ever. Last one happened in the Ukraine in ’94. Bunch in Japan in the ‘80s.

On Day 2 the only deaths are an ambling wiener dog cleanly sectioned by a sword and a few chickens, their clucking heads crunched via nunchaku, the weapon’s rawhide link sticky with fowl blood.

Day 3-5: A predawn charge overtures a full day of mass assassination almost as frenetic and ravaging as the first. This spasm of killing, however, slows over days 4 and five. The manifestation still beheads anyone or anything not under a roof, human or stock, but a certain berserk spirit seems to dissipate noticeably. The slaying isn’t as enthusiastic.

Theories abound, most of them infused with a hope contoured by acute desperation; they’re near-mythic, these theories.

Research into feline predatory patterns/Marquette University/1996:

“Our team stuck cats – housecats and ferals, both – into cages: one cat per cage. Then we simply dumped mice into these cages with the cats. Dozens of mice. The mice, of course, had nowhere to hide.

“The pattern was conspicuous right away: the cat frenzies, eyes big as dinner plates, followed by a maelstrom of claw action.

“Every cat, though, without variance, did this:

“They massacred the mice frantically, as though the mice could escape or we might take them away any second.

“Then, somewhere around Mouse Victim #14 (it’s a 12-14 range, this phenomenon, though we’ve seen it go as high as 16; never lower than 12), the cat just mellows, stops killing. Every time.

“Does the cat get bored around kill #14? Is its bloodlust sated at or around that magic number? Or does it merely realize the mice are trapped and it need not rush its rampage?

“Or… or, more interestingly, does kitty experience some kind of lynxian existential crisis? Does Garfield gaze dejectedly at his bloody, dripping claws as though they’re the substantiation of meaninglessness and say to itself, figuratively, ‘What’s the use?’

“Does Toonces pause and ask itself, ‘What the fuck is the point of me, anyway?’ Unless someone speaks cat, we’ll probably never know.”

Day 6-21: Days 6-21 play out as a more salient, more fizzly copy of days 4 and five.

The murders diminish in both number and frequency.

The mute ninjaforms meet an apparent corrosion of their eager bloodthirstiness. Their hearts are no longer in it, it seems.

The ninja seem bored. Or disillusioned. Sometimes a ripe townie will stroll right past a ninja, practically daring it to cut him down, practically volunteering, and the airborne assassin will merely look down at the dirt road, as though ashamed.

Some pundits attribute the change to Sumner’s population’s obstinacy, its grim insistence on resuming business-as-usual on Day Five. On 5, farmers rouse their slumbering tractors, church service is held, and a semi-normalcy pre-ninjastorm is willed into being. Granted, ninja bashed and hacked a not-insignificant number of townies during this time of unsheltering, sure, but the folks of Sumner were through hiding, come hell or ninja.

Day 22: A milestone in the Sumner ninjitstorm: 22 marks the day of the final killing of a town resident by a manifestation. It’s an awkward kill, like the last twitch of some fading convulsion: a meaningless reflex. Miss Maple, 83 years old. She was exiting the post office. Three ninjaforms were milling around out front, by the office’s decorative trough and hitching posts. None of the ninja had attacked in days. As Miss Maple passes the trio, nodding a “How do you do?”, one ninja flinches, and the flinch clumsily morphs into an instinctive strike. A jerky nunchaku stick cracks Miss Maple’s brittle skull. Red spurts out through gray scalp. Blood spatters her lavender shawl. She dies in the dirt road, her seizurely throes the only movement. It’s pathetic, that last killing. Dishonorable. Ninja wear masks, but still it’s as though the humiliation can be read on the assassin’s face: a child caught in the act of doing something stupidly cruel for no good reason.

Day 23-Day 60:

Crazy to say it.

Well, shit. You want it to go back to the way it was last month?

‘Course not. Hell.

I know what Carl’s gettin’ at though. Yessir. It’s glum. They’re like reminders of somethin’ sad.

Somethin’ bygone.

Yeah, “gone” is right. Gone are a bunch of decent folk gettin’ stabbed and decapitated for no goddamn reason. Are y’all forgettin’ that?

They are weather, Dan. We gonna hate somethin’ natural forever? It’s like stayin’ mad at the tornado that took your pickup.

Like stayin’ sore at the scorpion for stingin’.

That weather took my wife’s eye out with a dag-gum throwin’ star, Baker.

Settle down y’all.

How much’s a bag of them Corn Nuts?

The picante ones? Them’re good.

Well, listen. Them ninja, they’re here. And, ill or good, they’re ours. That’s how this town is. They’re part of us now.

Harmless, the ninja of Sumner slouch, their all-black suits vivid in the dayglare. They mill a lot, doing nothing – mopey shadows.

A gradual homogeny blooms: the town, its placidness, its standardized, cyclic normalcy, first tames and then assimilates the disorder of ninja, like a gobbling Norman Rockwell that quickly swallows up and absorbs any rogue or transgressive brushstrokes.

No one likes a sad ninja. Sad ninja are worse than your ordinary sad person. They’re oppressive.

The ninjaforms go from skulking assassins to lethargic killers; then to dejected, bland objects of pity – voiceless panhandlers, like stray cats or confused urchins.

Lost in despair, pouting between the town’s squat buildings or brooding in silent circles behind the video store, the ninja, finally, become the sullen pillars of the Sumner community.

Day 61-Present:

The ninja are as much a part of Sumner now as the cattle. As fixed and integral as the cornstalks. More so, maybe.

Sumner’s a tourist destination now; a very disappointing one. Morose ninja contemplating the dirt get boring fast. Tourists snap a few photos of the incongruous weather-forms, grab a slab of Marge’s Diner’s “famous” banana cream pie, and drive back to Florida or California or wherever tourists come from.

There is talk of penning up the ninja and making them a petting zoo. They’re docile as sleepy goats now, after all. Sometimes tourists’ kids will run over and pet one of them or tug at one’s pant leg. It gave people ideas.

Sometimes sympathetic Sumner grandmothers, overcome by pity, will do something like pet one of the glum ninja, stroking its hooded, hung head, extending a solace that isn’t receivable.

Story and artwork by Will Bernardara Jr.

[Author Bio]

Will Bernardara Jr. is the author of the novella America from voidfront. 

[lomasdope]

LOMASDOPE.COM

[spiderrrling]

Welcome to Camp Moonglade, Summer of 1985...

It is your second summer as a camp counselor at Camp Moonglade, which is all canoeing, arts & crafts, capture the flag and... dealing with your mortal enemy, fellow counselor, Eddie Munson.

He is the absolute last person you want to be stuck with for the upcoming five weeks and, wanting this year to be different, you decide to take action. Give him a taste of his own medicine. But things don't go exactly as planned, and suddenly you're seeing an entirely new side to Eddie Munson- and you have no idea how to feel about it.

"And... no summoning demons?" you asked, looking over at him with your eyebrows raised.

"Yeah, we can't have another one of you running around, besides it must be done with supervision and proper care."

Prepare your sense of adventure, camp starts next Friday! Make sure you do not miss it by adding yourself to my taglist!

Mutuals & tag list below!

Mutuals - @uglypastels @catastrofhe @eddiemunsonbrxinrot @eddiemunsons-girl @loveronlineee (feel free to ignore!)

@pastel-abyss-x @fayetheenthusiast @obi-wanakenobi @starbeambo @chloebeansack @a-villain-vying-for-attention @meaganjm @prettytoxix @magicalxdaydream @ghoulsgraveyard @emmaginanni @eddie-munsons-girlfriend @munchabunch @kaydancegilr0y @eateraa @satorix @avery-needs-more-fics @kbakery @milly-louise @salome-c @hopebaker @moonlight-and-stars @sweetpeapod @eddiemunsonsfuturewife @cherrypieyourface @theglitterymess @eddieshellfireshirt @lovelyladymayy @hellfire-state-of-mind @itsmoonyhere @missriverred @crabravee @escape-in-time-x @eddiemunsnon @alternativelit @nightless @ruinedbythehobbit @evilunicorn4minions @bohemian-war @lili-pond @hb8301 @emotionaldreamer @eddies-lover @audrie-bryant @munson-burner @luvbug8 @love-conqures-everythingg @shamidreamer

[alternativelit-blog]

@gq may have upped the game with #SeanSpicer Alternative ABCs, but we started the alt-phabet game. Today’s lesson:

J is for protest

All these women protesting. Sad. Why didn’t they just vote?

[cavitymagazine]

𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚎

Crouching near stream Hand reaches into water Fingers find pebble take Pebble smooth and gleams Sunlight clouds blue sky Birds sing Wind shifts tall blades of grass Stand. Pebble small in hand Quivers sprouts tendrils begins to swell Glitch crack splits vision Scattering rainbow particulate deterioration Head jerks back Transmitter pricks dull ache in attachment holes Tear stream over red flaky skin Unblinking eyes bloodshot Screen bright Eyes close sunken skin puddles Hand wipes away scum And a bit of crust from mouth Metallic taste on tongue Takes good long nicot puff Lemon pomegranate blueberry cloud Ass crack burns with shit rash Stinks Lumpy busted couch Room no windows No light but white dead screen Eyes bloodshot Tear rolls down eczema face Transmitters twist along head Dull ache tightens glitch crack patches Stitches and rainbow bleeds whole Sunlight blue sky clouds and wind Shifts tall grasses Birds sing Dragonflies hover A mosquito lands–pierces— Suckles naked skin

//

[David Sprehe is the author of the poem ‘Here’. Peripherals: Expat, Rune Bear, Pyre, Nauseated Drive, Grody Mag, Beatnik Cowboy, HorrorSleazeTrash, Terror House Magazine. Wishes to promote: L by Theresa Smith, With Light & Dust by Xi Nan and Fish Lu, HEADCODE by Kenji Siratori].

[spiderrrling]

Heyyy can you make an Eddie fanfic where Eddie and fem reader are grown up and married and they have a little daughter who’s probably like 2 or 3 and for Father’s Day reader takes the kid to a pottery painting place and the kid paints a mug or something for Eddie and he loves it so much and uses it everyday

Masterlist - Taglist - Requests are open

There was one tradition Eddie had decided to keep up even after he moved out of his uncle's trailer, the obsessive collection of mugs. It was the one thing Eddie was absolutely incessant about having. And while your collection was nowhere close to the size Eddie and Wayne had, it was still quite sizable after the past few years of collecting together.

Which is how your kitchen had gone from looking at least semi normal, to becoming a museum of mugs from seemingly every corner of the world. Wherever you went, if they had mugs you could expect at least one of them to come home with you.

But there was one mug that Eddie used more than any else, and one he would never ever be able to exchange for anything else. The mug with a completely lopsided handle, an uneven brim, and clumsy flowers and words painted on it.

It is his absolute favourite mug in the whole entire world, and nothing would ever be able to replace it. That is unless she makes him a new one next year.

The mug had been his first official fathers day present from his little munchkin that she had made all on her own, with just a little bit of help from you.

Which in all honesty was a mess of clay and paint, but little Violet had been so proud of it when she was done and she couldn’t wait to give it to her daddy.

Wrapped in crooked and half torn colourful wrapping paper, and a card she drew all by herself with her small box of crayons.

The look on Eddie’s face when he unwrapped the mug was absolutely priceless, and every time after he used that mug for his morning coffee a bit of that smile returned to his face. And he was so proud of it, knowing that it was his mug that Violet had made for him absolutely made his heart swell.

Taglist -

@pastel-abyss-x @fayetheenthusiast @obi-wanakenobi @starbeambo @chloebeansack @a-villain-vying-for-attention @meaganjm @prettytoxix @magicalxdaydream @ghoulsgraveyard @EmmaGinanni @eddie-munsons-girlfriend @munchabunch @kaydencegilr0y @eateraa @satorix @xbreezymeadowsx @hunnybunimdun @eddiemunsonsfuturewife @avery-needs-more-fics @kbakery @milly-louise @salome-c @hopebaker @mooonlight-and-stars @sweetpeapod @eddiemunsonsfuturewife @cherrypieyourface @theglitterymess @eddieshellfireshirt @lovelyladymayyy @hellfire-state-of-mind @itsmoonyhere @missriverred @crabravee @escape-in-time-x @eddielives1986 @finnlover55 @escape-in-time-x @eddiemusnon @alternativelit @nightless @crimsonkissesx @finnlover55 @hunnybunimdun @xcarabear @munsaniac @ruinedbythehobbit @ddmybeloved @jessicainhell

[cavitymagazine]

𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝕎𝕠𝕣𝕕 𝕊𝕒𝕝𝕒𝕕 𝕊𝕨𝕚𝕟𝕕𝕝𝕖!

       "I AM THE ANTICHRIsT !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! >

    WITH MY SEX – tinnitus > 

>ANARCHIST< 

                  EAR-FUCK >

Rants / 

                                               with random hit or miss histrionics

                                               scream first and ask 

for pure entertainment value later

                          a panting juvenile ticket dollar >

                          feel up a record-breaking blockbuster and 

   Susan B. Anthony on coins long since passed away

   into undergarment oblivion 

                          at the Department of Treasury > sex for pocket change

 jangling at the bottom of the sea >

                                                  sunken >

                                            patches over both eyes 

but that's not the eye 

                                 I’m referring to the 

                                  land down under + downtown > in the sewers and

 feeling like overflowing 

                     exclusively DOWN +

                                       in the pits of the musty pathway of success

                                        in life without someone's appendages

   lowering themselves to your gross negligence of 

   appendages

                            underwhelming and unappealing when 

                           your leg falls asleep and my 

                             brain falls off the roof of my head,

                           where the "blind + substupid 

                              marshmallow eating serial campfire killer"

curses outrageously at the 

         "agoraphobic nymphomaniac telemarketers"

       who ring once and never answer > to my name >

I attach hidden significance of no importance whatsoever >

                 so my name isn't yelled out in your night time

                  frenzy of >

                                      symbiotic

sweaty silken sheet +

                                  fingernails on the fingers > on the blackboard + on

                         the clitoris / cat scratch fever > FIST + FUCK / oily midnight >

    typing one hundred words per minute > equivalent to

                                  a life flashing before the eyes >       with irregular heartbeat +

 cybersex chat room +  machine gun +   diarrhea mouth /

                                 irregular grammatical >      unspelled checked errors

   saint peter's judgement and bad taste =   in your mouth that assaults 

                                    my name that isn't me >

 but my persona shrieks in horny terror

                                                                          <  silently

                                                                          not growing emotionally 

                                                                          caged

                                                                          magnificently wrong and

                                       and bruised imaginary ego runs down and out

                                      of luck

                             out of sex fantasies 

                                  copyrighted

                            mentally released to a theater near me / 

       in fairy tale alice-holes of despicable shameless

   rabbit holes > uncovered with me in them

  exploring uncharted xenophobic territory >

                                        watching as the 

psycho silliness > factually freaked out fist

                                                   comes down your throat and 

                                                pulls up all the repressed symptoms and wraps 

                                                    them under your repressed X-mas tree 

as you eat cock-shaped cookies and

  drink what only looks like milk + Problematically Sexual >

                           crossbred apples and oranges juicy GMO trauma

                           mental health + the skin

 is returning the favor and burning the Sun's single remaining 

 nerve-ending / limping away /

      HIDE the dictionary before it retaliates against my

sign language misinterpreter = middle finger mumbling /

      filling out my resume and applying for a career in drug abuse > tweaking 

      toward victory at conflict with all > father symbols sucking ineptitude

              popsicles / lawbreaking genitals + rotting teeth sexually 

transmitted low self-esteem                   CANDY therapist 

socialized mescaline             declares smoking gun peace

   fought a war on health care and 

    a year's worth of drugs and backrubs /

                                         for the impoverished > the overdosed > the shredded

                                         cadavers / rigor mortis 

                                          muscle aches / 

new orders to go bar-hopping > religious conversion to menthol > polyester >

                                        totalitarian disco            three hundred

                                  and thirty-three-year-length songs >

                                      soundtrack played every three eons >

CURVING

            around a sexy army / slender hips

             slender radio antenna   and up

to fuck smooth small ears 

          with small talk >jabbering<

a high-powered arsenal of

 of double-barrel > Baphomet > / mating ritual horns >

                  + thrown up into the air and destroying B-52 bombers overhead /

 the pinky and index finger interlocking >

                 suggesting that Satan loves hormonal imbalance

                as ammunition in his war on good >

                                                          god >

the outspent evil empire soviets and 

              their lack of free markets > give us Free Love > economic orgies >

            engaged in an uncomfortable wallet fuck < keep your dick out of my pocket >

 as here I am >

    singing Beethoven's Ninth / a bombastic thematic wedding > 

 propose to the whole Planet > to ALL the sons and daughters of men and spousal  

         abuse >

     to be neither a husband nor a woman >

  vow to never beat my medium rare children with tenderizers     

/ bbq hamburger upbringing >

/ TO subdivide and conquer >

   TO be Fruitful and multiply = NOT IN MY BACKYARD 

  !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  G

                                L

                                   O

                                      R

                                          I

                                             A 

                                                  STEINEM

                                                         !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                                            Was right! 

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!   R

                                   U

                                       S

                                           S

                                               M

                                                   A 

                                                       Y 

                                                           E

                                                               R  !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                                                  Was right!

       directing me to establish myself as a crumbling pillar

in the sultry community > beneath

   the San Fernando Valley of the Ultra Vixens >

                  where bulging X-rated Ritchie Rich men think 

    fucking million-dollar porn bots   

is sex anarchy   

[Author: T.W. Selvey]

T.W.’s writing appears in The Shore, Nauseated Drive, Grody Mag and Silent Auctions. T.W. is the proud curator of a haphazardly curated blog, www.documentdement.com

[alternativelit-blog]

Today’s alt-phabet entry is brought to you by the changing clothing standards for women. Because nothing’s good enough for the men in our lives:

I is for healthcare

Men have always known better than those hysterical women what’s right for them. They should be thanking me.

[alternativelit-blog]

Today’s alt-phabet entry:

H is for wall

This wall will be good for Mexico because we need to keep the criminal illegals from taking our American jobs

[alternativelit-blog]

It’s an alt-phabet twofer!

F is for immigration

We have to make America first to be great again.

G is for bad hombres

They live in Mexico and are coming for all of us.

[alternativelit-blog]

Don’t delay: Learn your alternative ABCs today!

E is for jobs

I’ve brought back all the jobs from the places where they went and now they’re here and unemployment is not bigly.

[alternativelit-blog]

Start your day with alternative ABCs! Today’s lesson:

D is for oil

We should have taken the oil when we were in Iraq. But there’s always another chance for that.

[alternativelit-blog]

Next installment of the alt-phabet! Today’s lesson:

B is for dollars

The liberal media will tell you there is no B. But they’re dishonest and you can’t trust them.

[alternativelit-blog]

Guess How Much I Hate You

Little Toad, who was online checking his latest popularity figures, held on tight to his mobile phone and its Twitter app.

He wanted to be sure that everyone was listening.

“Guess how much I hate everyone who isn’t like me,” he said.

“Oh, we don’t know if we could guess that,” said everyone.

“THIS MUCH,” said Little Toad, stretching his arms and tiny hands out as far as they could go.

Everyone frowned. Their hands were of normal size, and their arms of varying lengths. And frankly, this statement didn’t make much sense coming from a small toad.

“But we don’t choose to hate,” they said. “We look for love where we can find it.”

Hmm. This could be a problem, thought Little Toad.

“I hate you when you don’t think like me,” said Little Toad

“We love you even if you don’t think like us,” said everyone

That’s concerning, thought Little Toad. I wonder how I can manipulate their minds so they understand that there is only one right way, and it is my way.

Then Little Toad had a bright idea. He decided to only Tweet to those people who thought like he did, and question the integrity of those who didn’t.

“If you had my worldly experience, you would understand that you’re meant to be hated,” said Little Toad

“But we do have that experience, and we have a much different perspective,” said everyone.

“That’s because half of you are women, and you don’t have the temperament to fully understand these complex ideas,” said Little Toad.

That’ll teach them, thought Little Toad.

“I’m afraid we must disagree. That ideology went out with poodle skirts and soda fountains,” said everyone.

“Well then you’re stupid if you can’t see the facts right in front of your face,” said Little Toad.

He was almost too angry to think clearly anymore.

Then he looked down through his Twitter feed, through the messages of support from misogynists and the alt-right, and realized nothing was more important than a mindless legion of followers who believed everything they read on the internet.

“Everything would be great again if we could just return to the values we held when men ran the world and women stayed home to raise the children,” said Little Toad. “That would be huge.”

Little Toad let out an orgasmic sigh, and settled back into his gilded throne to await the glowing boost to his ego that came from every supportive Tweet sure to come.

He whispered with a smile, “I hate you right up to the moon – and back. And soon, you’ll all know it.”