Anthony Dahm
Stories (34)
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Poe, Bukowski, and Even The Lizard King
We sat at opposite points of the campfire. The smoke gathered and gave way to the currents of subtle wind carrying exhaust of burning logs like evanescent spirits blowing kisses to the nightsky; a blacksheet salted with dandruff from the universe. Out there we had no phone signal but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway considering we opted to leave our communicative devices in Gene’s car, parked a mile downhill. He had got ahold of some acid and invited Kurt and myself to dose with him. So, there we were at the mercy of the ancient redwoods that were left to congregate in peace for now. Kurt was drawing in the dirt with a broken branch he picked up on the walk from the car. Gene was rolling a joint with an audibly elevated concentration on perfecting the craft of the roll. Meanwhile, I was enamoured by the passion of the fire trying to make love to the earth that only responded with rapid decay.
By Anthony Dahm4 years ago in Fiction
Madness is Particulate Matter
It’s hot as all hell. My AC is dead and has been dead for over a year now. I’m sweating like a member of a chain gang and my ball is resting on the brake pedal. There’s a dime-sized break in my windshield and the angle the traffic is facing makes it easy for the sun to beat on me like I am an unwanted step child. This kind of suffering is mild compared to where I’m headed. I’m heading to a place I have to call home and the whole trudging journey there I must endure the horns and the sirens unable to make their way through the undead trapped in their metal machines in order to pick up the reported dead.
By Anthony Dahm4 years ago in Fiction
