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Check out my first game! The Donation

The whole lit magazine submission grind is really starting to feel like a massive waste of time and effort, so I figured I may as well just start putting out my work on my own here. This site is the official guyliner hub for writing, games, music and so on. There will be much more coming in the near future.

SHORT STORIES:

glitterdick

The sky explodes vibrant marmalades around Seb’s silhouette, late afternoon sun catching in streaks of scattered clouds. Light halos around his head, shoulder-length blonde hair shimmering under his summertime sheen of sweat and oil. He moves fluid and dark around me. Blue feathers of gasified menthol ice float out his mouth in shaky plumbs. The pills he fed me dissolve into my guts and turn me dopey, my veins thrumming whorish and full of sensation. I fold myself down into the sun-bleached drainage floor, where the concrete is cracked with puffs of dying molds curled out from the soil underneath. Pallid tendrils form a soft bed under where my body lays. Creatures unseen echo down in the black maw of the drainage pipe, where campus’s turds all collect, legless bodies slithering through the stagnant water, inhaling snail and minnow prey. No one can see us here, obscured from the sightlines of dormitory window-eyes, behind tangled oak and paling concrete on all sides.

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My failures taste of screen and salt. It’s something relegated almost exclusively to words and two-dimensional representations, blatant artifice—pink-haired, heterochromed magic girls in way over their cutesy anime heads in insecto-flesh, stomachs deformed, fragile psyches breaking. There’s sparse—overwhelmingly lackluster—distributions online, buried deep deep in the hellish zoo boards. Scrolling and scrolling, my brain knots begin untwining themselves in a total lobal suicide sifting through the maniacal dregs of anonymous online puppy-fuckers. I wonder if the dog-love crowd hates me just as much as everyone else hates them? Maggoted honey, it’s coming into me—pixel mosaics of something I’ve seen before, more times than I can count. I low into my screen—no pleasure, only ritual. Living flesh reduced to host, parasite elevated to lover. A hissing cockroach flicks its antennae across a herped labia majora in 240p—a twelve-second clip of a Kyiv man’s genitals forcibly converted into a breeding ground for aedes albopictus, proboscises sinking into translucent foreskin as he strokes himself off with clinical dispassion at Kalashnikov gunpoint—a maternity forum for teen moms sabotaged by intentional botfly infestation hobbyists—centipedes taxidermied into increasingly lewd configurations of congress. I tug at my flaccidity, one pull every half-minute, matching baseline vascular function. Russian chitchat froths under white noise through the laptop speakers. What’s your plans after this, bro? Lunch? I finger-fuck myself to mushis for the thousandth time and cum across spit-slick white knuckles. There’s nothing in this immateria, just a schizophrenic A-B-C routine, sterile realms of fantasy, punching my softness and hoping something will spring out the hedonism ether to rapture me from this pathetic endoskeleton existence.

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On Alpha Centauri Humor

Now, deer ain’t all peaceful like that Bambi joint—those fuckers’ll gore your ass if you scare em. They’re brutal sonsabitches, serious. So as I step up to em, it’s like I walked into a house or something—the air was still, it was dead-quiet. I had this feelin in my guts, kinda like when you’re driving down a hill and suddenly start going up again and it makes your stomach feel like it’s all floatin. You know what I mean? The next thing I know, it’s nighttime and I’m out in that clearing with my fuckin dick in the dirt like a jackass, pants round my knees and my shirt on backwards—and I had the worst headache I ever had in my goddamn life. I wasn’t too far from the house, so I fix my clothes and walk the mile or two down off the mountain in the dark. Shit, I was scared. I was thinkin maybe I jus passed out and had a weird nap out there or had a mini-stroke or some shit like that. But when I got home, woke the family up—shit, they all bout pissed themselves—I’d been gone an entire fuckin week, man.

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Outside (in)

Windows fog with the humidity of the bus’s interior, passenger breaths all collecting against the cold glass and hazing. A single heater blasts hot air and charred fragments of foul-stenching mold dusts out from under one of the back seats, warming only one lucky quadrant within the slow-rolling machine cask. The driver whose breath reeks of nicotine and last night’s whiskey binge bitches to himself at the front. He mumbles and curses under his breath while he wipes a sleeve crusty with his chimichanga lunch at the windshield. His vision is just clear enough to see the streetlights vaguely outlining the confines of the road ahead as he presses from stop to stop, nearly veering into a collision every dozen or so yards. Seated at the bus’s midsection, pressed into the broken window next to a man that smells like unwashed laundry, Marie’s face is framed by her coat’s hood and a heavy knitted scarf. She leans forward in her seat to eavesdrop on this morning’s collective misery: straying husbands’ new holes, junkies’ new scores, latest superhero joint flops, latest celebrity sex scandal, Chris secretly resents his eight-year-old son, Kate can’t find a decent guy to fuck her brains out. White noise fuzzing staticky out the mouths of eight billion carcasses, echoing off the innards of the suburban sprawl and shotgunning into Marie’s internal computer to process and process and process. Needs unmet, wants ignored, citywide plague proliferating into every crevice—into her lungs, into her veins, into her womb—warping its fragile host from the inside.

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