Three Micro poems Sally Burnette
#thesideshow July 2nd 2016 Three Micro Poems by Sally Burnette
July 2, 2016
#thesideshow July 5th 2016 Flash Fiction A Misunderstanding by A. Riding
July 5, 2016

#thesideshow July 3rd 2016 Flash Fiction Euphoria by Weasel

Euphoria by Weasel

Euphoria

by Weasel

My eyes shot open as I felt my body relax from a mass of tension. The mattress beneath me creaked violently as I shifted and rose from the paralysis I had escaped. I slept in a freezer; at least that is what several have told me from staying the night, not that I mind. The cool air soothes my body before it is sent off somewhere in the flatlands of dreams.

It’s unfortunate how the nature of thought tends to work. Memories are archived but when trying to pull them out from the caverns it’s essentially impossible. My hands tremble as they wipe along my eyes as my body takes its time to awaken. The time that streamed by allowed the sweat to make its home on my skin. There is no nightmare more powerful than real life; no monster under the bed unless the collectors are desperately following you. I couldn’t pull up the notion of stress that was running through me whilst I slept; I remember the creature in the mirror—a hairless being resembling another person. The skin seemed to stretch over its head, the eyelids missing. The longer I stared into it the more I began to lose myself. I had forgotten my name, Jack? Jacob? The boogeyman was out to claim me, out to steal me away from the problems of paying bills and surviving in an apartment. But who was I? I suppose the mind can’t be bothered with identity, not when confronting some alien beast in the mirror at a staring contest. Who the fuck cares? I could have been Jesus fucking Christ for all the world knew and it still wouldn’t have mattered. Not with the ugly fuck in front of me. His silence didn’t last long; his hand burst through the goddamn mirror and grabbed at my shirt like a nun grabbing at her rosary. And me? I was defenseless! All I could do was throw used condoms at the bastard. Combinations of latex and sperm did nothing. It was sperm resistant. It was God resistant. The monster pulled me into its abyss; mirrors are parallel universes in disguise. Beasts like the demon wait for us, it was real nasty stuff when you think about it. I embraced it, grabbed its head and placed it on my nipple. The bastard was at least going to suck the holy tit of Jesus the American citizen. Oh beautiful, for spacious crosses, nails in the coffins of armies that are sent out in my goddamn name. There was still enough conservative acid to break this fucker.

And then I woke up. Jacob fucking whatever my last name is. Not Jesus or God, but me, the wannabe asshole jumping out of bed to fight the space aliens that don’t exist. I grabbed a joint from the ground and lit it as I stumbled to the window. The breeze was refreshing as I gazed outward on the empty street. A mangled individual walking a depraved and protected shopping cart stopped and looked up at me, “Hey Mista, you got a dollar? Anything for some food?” Conservative Jesus would never give to these bastards, no, only wish them best and tell them to take a shower. Fuck showers. I grabbed a bag of change which carried two joints and tossed down to him. “Thanks mista, say whats yo name? I got to know the names of saints.”

And the angels are weeping now, weeping at the thought of me ever becoming a saint. But why the fuck not? I was Jesus dammit. Maybe in a fucking dream but a dream still counts. “Jacob” was all I said as I waved at him, still puffing away. One must always be prepared in the ways of stress relievers. I scratch at my arms for a second, my hand slowly trembling back towards the smoke protruding from my lips. My eyes narrowed, there was blood on them. From where?

I ran from the window and into the bathroom to look at myself in the mirror. My foot landed on the cold tile floor when bursting through the door. A sharp pain caught me off balance as I slide over the small entry way and into the bathtub. Something warm lay next to me, I felt it. I slowly brought myself up to find another body in my tub, my body. Glass littered the floor, stuck between my feet and legs. I was cut up like a coked out whore after a sadistic gang bang in the back alleyway. There I was, throat slit open. It was strange shit. I picked up a piece of glass and stared at my reflection. The beast was there, smiling with its plastic lips, licking its stretched out skin. The taste of American man milk couldn’t save me, but what else is there to be saved from now? Such a painful way to come into life, hallowing bodies and using them for whatever they need them for. Whatever I need them for. My God, what euphoria have I brought upon myself?


Weasel is a degenerate writer. He received his Bachelor of Arts in Literature at the University of Houston-Clear Lake and uses the scrap paper to fuel his two publishing imprints Weasel Press and Red Ferret Press.