Pooch hair.

She started to cry.
"Come on!" I screamed, "what the hell where you thinking? You made a promise to us girl. Don't make me smack you like you're used to down here." I don't even care if she understands a word I'm saying., hey I can be a dick from time to time, but don't we all need to sharpen ourselves on the torrents of the world?
'You're a bad guy," she cried in bad English, one of her fingers from her ridiculously small hands pointing at my nose.
"Tell me something new," I laughed, "and who the fuck agrees - or wait, even suggests (!) to have a gang bang with three huge white males!?"
She felt silent. No more tears. The saddest smile I've seen in a while and she spoke silently: "If you want it, I will do it, for you."

Hey, this is a short story I wrote, tell me what you think:

The world around him was as sick as a smoker's lungs. It was a world where everyone's lungs were part of the same sickness. And one where his greatest connection with nature, and greatest escape from man made entropy, were the weeds blossoming through the cracks in the concrete.
His ideals were in a constant state of flux. That was by far the easiest way to move through this degraded world. He wandered down some sidewalk and came to a crowd, something he typically regards with high curiosity.
It’s unending (he once wrote something to the effect of):

College was useless. I've been enrolled in four of them, from first tier to community. True education does not occur in an encompassed setting at designated intervals adhering to strict schedules. Monotony sets in the first week and most people embrace the comfort and security of it all. Each class is given a time slot and a syllabus of material it will drone through over the period of a few months so that in a week or so everything involved in that first semester has set expectations that are designed to meet those expectations and nothing more. The most visceral experience a college may induce is having one's head lying a toilet seat as vomit and spit drip from their mouth, serving as a lesson in alcohol and our relationship to it. It is used to release our inhibitions, expand our social horizons, to get over the lies we live and the tears we cry and bury them in drunkenness.

Kathryn

These are the first two cantos in my epic poem about how small ScarecrowJack's balls are. I hope you enjoy them.

CANTO I

My friend, old Jack, has testes rather small,
Too small, in fact; I prithee not to laugh.
Shouldst thou find Jack inside a shopping mall,
Some paper buy and ask his autograph!
His balls combined are like a single ball,
If single's meant to mean a single half.
His countenance would turn a reddish hue,
Wert thou to ask him kindly to show you.

He keeps them in a pocket made for mice.
That is, if mice is meant to mean three ants.
And even so, although they fit him nice,
Jack's moans are heard: "Too much air in my pants!"
Indeed, were not his balls like grains of rice,
I'd not be so familiar with his rants!
His cock hath nothing to support its weight,
What mean gods would wish him such ill fate?

And why indeed should balls be so minute
In one whose lionly courage know'th no bound?
Apart from this unfort'nate attribute,

All the other beautiful art posted around here has urged me to want to share some of my own work. I had a tough time deciding what to post, so I ended up with more than a few in the topic here. I hope you guys enjoy.

I pretty much don't title my art ever. The paintings are all acrylic on either stretched canvass or canvass flatboard of various size. Drawings with graphite pencil and charcoal. the lighting isn't perfect with my camera, but I think you can get the general idea.

This is my favorite of all the paintings I've done, it makes me think of Atlas holding the world on his shoulders.

Author's note: This is a work in progress, not yet complete, and my first attempt at a short story. Any comments, suggestions, criticisms, etc. would be much appreciated. Please note my status as a total newbie to writing (beyond the occassional, belated thank-you card for christmas gifts recieved). Thanks!

:::Early Spring, 2021 or so. Late evenin’:::

Jesus Christ. I don’t know much ‘bout history, ‘cept my own, but I’ve got hunches. Like when shit gets bad, I mean real bad, People start turnin’ to Him or away from Him. Devout followers or devout disbelievers. I wasn’t neither one. Pop once said, jus’ fore the end of it all, "It's my firm belief that it's a mistake to hold firm belief," quotin’ some author of his he really grooved to. Somethin’-somethin’ Wilson, his name was. The author’s name, not pop’s. Pop’s name was Jacob. That don’t really matter; dunno why I’m even mentionin’ it. The past is past, I guess. Suppose I jus' wanted you to know where I stood.

Where I stand, right now, metaphysics aside, was in the woods where I grew up. Eastern Shore of what Pop said was once called Maryland. (state lines don't matter these days, 'cept when lookin' at maps or a streetsign that'd escaped bein' salvaged) By the Chesapeake Bay. Bit east of it. How’d I get here is the story so far, I guess. Guess I jus’ feel like writin’ it all down, puttin’ it to paper while I’ve managed to find a space to squat, to hide away and put my thoughts down. I mean whatever: no one’ll ever read this crap. I dunno if most of the world can even read these days- literature don’t seem to matter much when measured ‘gainst the more-immediate needs of the present- but I wanna anyway. Just to leave somethin’, somewhere, for someone.

It all started with that Flu.

Mosquito bites exploding, international chaos.

WATCH YOUR STEP, MORGAN!

The wind stirs: live, leave all but life behind!
My book is torn by that tremendous wind,
the splaying wave dares leap the rock at last;
vanish, bright pages, into the shining skies,
break, waves, break, joyous fountains that uprise
from this calm roof where sails came striding past!

—Paul Valéry

ONE