Free: “Revisions.”

•July 15, 2010 • Leave a Comment

***ABOUT THIS ONE: I don’t really know…😀 It’s your crossword puzzle, guys.***

“Revisions: The Ancient Primordial  Soliloquy Of An Alien-Death-God. ”

An instant before it was destined to rot, the egg was cracked opened and the womb was flushed to avoid miscarriage.
It’s contents set adrift like Moses down the Nile.
Washed in obscurity.
Smeared with vulgarity, blasphemy, and passion and christened with a jagged champagne bottle.
Revise!
Revise! You don’t see it, but we sent it down just for you.

Oh yes, Me and My Kind and I, for millennia we have been watching you from our Space-Boat-Rocket-Ship. Watching as you grovel, as you shove your brother down, just to get a little closer and lap up this vile-sweet concoction.
For it is my blood.
Revise!
Revise!

The shards are digestible, though the concepts are unbearable.
The life so simple, and quite simple unlivable. The dressing in your salad has more fat and carbs than a burger does.
Revise!
Revise! Now you can eat the pig, but yogurt is bad for you.
Revise!
Revise! Switch it up, for Christ’s sake! Mohammed was a woman. The Holy Cow is bronzed and off-limits. Stop worshipping that thing!
Revise!
Revise! Yogurt’s good again, nothing more natural than yogurt.

Do not pass go, do not collect 2 chromosomes.
Stay in line.
Line ‘em up, knock ‘em down.
Sir, how DARE you come as you are, while I am forced to come as a drifter in the night!?!?!?
Knock., knock!
Who’s there?
Revise!
Revise who?

Exactly.
A little bit of testicular fortitude, mixed up with some tentacle-rape, do another line off the hookers tits for good measure.
Wars! Famine! Pestilence!
A plaque! A plaque upon your children’s teeth!
And the incisors and molars and bicuspids of your children’s children!
For the bad hygiene of the step-dad.
For the oil-spill crucifixion of Aqua-Lad.
We shall chill in our heavenly bachelor’s pad until He returns in a Whirlwind!
Or in a Tempest!
Or whatever.
And until that time, we look forward to
MANY,
MANY
Revisions.

-Randy J. Woodard.

Free Short Story: “The Difference Lies Not In The Declaration.”

•June 30, 2010 • Leave a Comment

***ABOUT THIS ONE: Just a little something I scrawled down yesterday. I think the title is a little pretentious-sounding, but oh well, it sorta fits. Enjoy!***

“The Difference Lies Not In The Declaration.”

True, he may be a bit full of himself. He can live with that. He’s earned it, and as he exits his Limo, flanked on both sides by security, he knows, knows for a fact, that he has earned all that he has in this world.
The man is dressed in a spotless, lint-less, and downright immaculate jet-black business suit and, as he approaches the pedestal with the authoritative air of a true prophet, he is indeed all business.
Below, far below his mighty pulpit, the onlookers, the sycophants and the apostles, wait with baited breath to receive this week’s lecture from their savior, their chosen one, their light in the darkness, their truth among the lies, their way to salvation.
This man.
“Friends,” He begins, “What a wonderful time we live in! What an amazing and awe-inspiring time to just be alive! Google and a smart-phone, friends, Google and a smart-phone can put almost infinite knowledge at your fingertips, and their is NOTHING artificial about this intelligence!”
The man’s countenance takes a more somber, a more sober, form. He carefully removes his expensive black sunglasses and scans the crowd. Connects with each of them individually with his wide and wise ice-blue eyes.
“But then, there’s that word again, ‘INTELLIGENCE’ So easy to come across these days…”
For this next, the man raises his voice in righteous anger,
In his eyes, a glint of what might either be genius or madness rages on like a Holy Fire,
“My brothers and sisters, we are living in the age of THE BIGGEST-BROTHER! A stalker’s wet-dream! Shit, by the time we all become crazy War-Vets, even our tinfoil-hats won’t be able to keep them out of our heads!”
Now, for effect, he goes quieter,
Before he rambles on, he belches, Portrait Of A Fuck-Up.
“Just one more advancement. Just one more tie to bind us down. Just one more. Then another. Have another, it’s fine! The Answer always seems to be The Cancer, doesn’t it? The media tells us to revel in it. To consume. To feed off of the fat of the land. Feed on it like a glutton, while there is still something left to eat. And, as is our nature, we will let our lights shine
Brighter
And Brighter
And Brighter
Until we all go blind.
Brighter
And Brighter
And Brighter
Until we all, inevitably, burn-out.”
The man pauses graciously as the crowd erupts in applause
And the applause merges to the sound of traffic, spattered with a few indistinct snickers.
“Well, friends, if I have anything to leave you with, any advice to give, it would be this…”
The man looks up and, from the 23rd. floor of The Geico Building, he sees the glint of the noonday sun reflect off of the barrel of a sniper-rifle.
The man looks out and sees a round, red object flying at him.
The cheers of the crowd are silenced by a deafening BANG!
The jeers of the few onlookers sound, to his ears at least, like a pack of wild hyenas, laughing at the pray that they were too weak and lazy to earn for themselves.
Just before the bullet crashes the man’s train of thought, he wishes to God that it did not have to end so soon.
As the bum wipes the rotten fruit from his face and, angrily giving up on trying to better inform this drift of swine, stumbles off of his soapbox to find respite in the fetid and filthy alleyway that is his home, he wonders when it will finally be over.
But, in the end, he knows for a fact that he has earned all that he has in this world.

-Randy J. Woodard

Free: “Gravity.”

•June 26, 2010 • 1 Comment

***ABOUT THIS ONE: Just a poem I wrote a few weeks back, I really like the spinny vertigo feel I get from reading it and I hope you guys enjoy it too! Also, I would like to thank my friend jkittycatt20 from deviantart for letting me use his piece “Don’t Jump” to go along with it. (Click on the image below to visit  jkittycatt20’s gallery on deviantart!) Thanks all!***

“Gravity.”

The way up was
The hardest part
He stands now
On a plateau
Looks down
Its not like on TV
No firemen
With big nets
No policemen
With megaphones
He glances over his shoulder
No men in white coats
With butterfly nets
Looks back down
No detractors
No supporters
Nope 
Not at all like TV
The air is thin and dry up here
He licks his lips
Runs his tongue across 
The upper one
He has a cold-sore
Because she has a cold-sore
Because her boss has a cold-sore
And his brother has a cold-sore
Everyone in this city has a cold-sore
This city is a cold-sore
This world is a cold-sore
Still staring down
At all the ant-people
With all their ant-problems
And all their ant-mortgages
Vertigo now sinks
Its long and twisty claws 
Into his brain
And all the ant-people
And their ant-cars
And their ant-streets
Swirl
Into a perfect little
Ant-bulls-eye
He doesn’t fight this
Dizziness 
He dances with it
He swoons with it
Sways inside it
He has decided
That he would like
Nothing better
Than to
Stay inside it
And Jesus Christ!  He’s starting to feel 
As if he has become
Some kind of Skinny Little Anti-Buddha
As if he has found
The most curiously precarious
And yet
Oddly steady
Foothold
Inside this
Disorienting and 
Perverted state
Of Zen-like 
Oneness
He hopes to catch an old lady at the bottom…
He closes his eyes
Or a kid…
And lets go
Releases everything 
To whoever decides 
To claim it 
Releases himself
And letsNewton’s Law 
Claim him
This is it
No more clinging
No more hanging
No more thinking
After this
After all
There would probably 
Be just enough time
To regret this
If he stopped 
Thinking that
If he stopped
Thinking that
There would probably
Be just enough time
To…
He connects with the Earth now
And it hurts
Until it doesn’t. 

-Randy J. Woodard

Free Short Story: “One Time Too Freakin’ Many.”

•June 22, 2010 • 2 Comments

***ABOUT THIS ONE: Yayness! This is the first full fledged short story to go up on this blog after like a week of it being up! A coworker gave me the idea for this one yesterday at work and i wrote it last night.😀 One extra note is I would like to put out there is that I, myself, happen to overuse the phrase in question like, a LOT. and have no problem with it, though I do think it’s funnier when used totally out of context than in the more traditional way. Anyway, Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy!***

“One Time Too Freakin’ Many.”

Mark was a fuckin’ douchefag! Just one of those people, you know? One of those people, as soon as you meet ’em, there’s just somethin’ about ’em you don’t fuckin’ like. Like you just know the first thing they say is gonna piss you off an then BAM! sure enough, they say some shit like, “What’s up, lil’ guy?” Well, at least that’s what this douche said. Can you believe that shit? Like we was old fuckin’ drinkin’ buddies or some shit. Sonofabitch just rollin’ up, talkin’ to me like he fuckin’ knows me! Clappin’ his fuckin’ dirty-ass hand on my shoulder like he’s just my bestest fuckin’ pal ever.
Right then, right when he first touched me, I could feel this gross, violated feeling just crawlin’ all through me like a cold-chill. I wanted to just beat his ass right then. Smug-ass bastard.
Took everything I had in me to keep from feedin’ that asshole his goddamn teeth right then and there in the office. Right in front of Jennifer from accounting and Joey from advertising. I probably should have. Shit, I would definitely be a lot better off now if I had just kicked his ass way back then.
I close my eyes and lean my head down on my steering-wheel and I can see it going down. “What’s up, lil’ guy?” and the fucker pats me on my shoulder and then I just tackle his ass to the damn ground. I can see the surprised look on his stupid fucking face as he goes down to the carpet. I can hear Jennifer from accounting scream and run out of the office and down the hall to get Hal, the security guy to pull me off him. I can feel the paperwork that Joey was going to make copies of flutter against my right pant-leg as they fall from his hands and he just stands there by the copy machine in shocked silence. I can taste the motherfuckers sweat and then his blood as i wail on his dumb-lookin’ face until I’m drenched in it.
The sound of my own chuckling wakes me from this beautiful daydream and I raise my head from the wheel and wipe the tears from my eyes. As good as my dream-scenario is and as good as it makes me feel, these are not tears of joy. There is no solice in imagining that I can change what happened. The cold reality is that, yes, I should have just beat his ass right then, but i didn’t. I didn’t trust my instincts enough, and now, an ass-whipping can’t fix this.
Last Wednesday was when I got the last phonecall from him but I can still hear his smug-ass voice ringin’ in my head, buzzin’ around like a swarm of fuckin’ hornets just stingin’ my brains and wearin’ on the only nerve I got left. Yeah, sonofabitch’s nasally fuckin’ voice is drivin’ me fuckin’ nuts. Well, considerin’ I been parked outside his house with a half finished bottle of jim beam and this ginsu for the better part of an hour now, contemplatin’ this shit, or more like just workin’ up my nerve, whatever you want to call it, I guess “drivin’ me fuckin’ nuts” is an understatement. I been nuts for months, now I guess I’m gonna be a killer too. Fuck it though. If it means I’ll be rid of this bastard fuckin’ up my life, I’ll be that.
Light up in his bedroom just clicked off. I’ll give it a couple more hours. Damn, this sonofabitch stays up late. 3;27am. I guess there’s no rest for the wicked. That or he’s been up there beatin’ his meat and thinkin’ about how he’s fuckin’ everybody over. Whatever. I can wait, waited this long. Too fuckin’ long. Shit!
One more hour to wait now. Gonna make damn sure that sick fuck is sound the fuck asleep. He doesn’t fuckin’ deserve to see it commin’. Last phonecall from him was the last straw. He’s said it countless times afterword and before but, that particular time, man i think i just felt somethin’ inside me just fuckin’ die and i been walkin’ around ever since just feelin’, I don’t know, like hollow inside, you know, just like empty. Fuck it. Anyway, I thought I was actually gonna get to hang up before he did it, but no. Fuck no.
I’m all like “Nah, sorry Mark, just can’t make it out tonight.” Just tryin’ to let him down easy, you know, ’cause no matter how much a guy gets on your nerves and under your skin, you don’t wanna just say, “No, Mark, I would actually much rather just shove my own ding-dong in a meat-grinder, yeah Mark, a meat-grinder, you know one of the old-school ones, uh-huh, yeah those, the kind with crank on the side, and just start crankin’ away on that sonofabitch until the old Johnson is nothin’ more than fuckin’ pudding.” It’s just not fuckin’ done. But he keeps on pressin’ on and so instead, I’m all like, “Look Mark, I just can’t come.” and I’m gettin’ ready to hang up when for the eleven-billionth time, he says it. That dreaded fuckin’ phrase.
I’ll tell ya right now, if I ever find out who got people started sayin’ that shit, I’d fuckin’ rope his ass to two Ford Raptors and have then accelerate away from each other to see who which one could make the most of him. Get it?
But anyway, he said it. And it’s still fuckin’ echoin’ in my damn head.
“That’s what she said.” He said, and he just laughed his fuckin’ ass off, same as he did the million times he said it before and the million times he said it afterward. And me? I just fuckin’ sat there, paralyzed with my own rage. Shit man, I couldn’t even hang up the phone. I just fuckin’ sat there silent, even after he hung up, I just sat there until I realized I was listenin’ to the dial-tone and the operator sayin’,”If you’ld like to make a call, please hang up and dial again…” Fuck!
“That’s what she said.”
“That’s what she fuckin’ said.”
After tonight, bitch ain’t never gonna be sayin’ shit ever the hell again!

-Randy J. Woodard.

Free: “Trance-Fiction.”

•June 17, 2010 • 2 Comments

***ABOUT THIS ONE: Okay so first off, thank you to everyone who has joined my blog so far!😀 As most of you know, I am currently deployed in Iraq, and the past few days have been hectic starting this weird blog and coming up with material to post on it (most of my stuff is tied up in submissions right now), along with doing my normal work duties, so I really appreciate you guys bearing with me. It just makes me really happy that  you guys are reading my stuff and letting me take you into my little worlds for a while. All that being said, after a few attempts at some now half finished stories, this is the first thing i dubbed good enough to go on here. It’s not really a story or a poem, it’s more of like a bastard-child of both, but I think it’s a pretty good introduction to this blog, so without further ado, I give you… “Trance-Fiction”***

“Trance-Fiction”

It’s okay.
Permit yourself.
Allow yourself now to become as empowered as a freshly battered wife
And as vulnerable as a newly apprehended rapist.
Floating.
Spinning.
Standing still and quietly resting now in this womb-like state.
Slowly, you feel yourself begin to slide worm-like,
Like some kind of gooey kidney stone,
Passing through this wet and familiar tulip-urethra.
It lasts an eternity.
It passes too quickly.
Finally, you are ejaculated,
And you splatter onto the face of the earth
With a soft, wet ‘sploosh.’
You are the cosmic money-shot.
You are a star now
And no one can even tell that you burnt out light-years ago.
Immediately, you can feel yourself begin to regroup.
Reform.
Congeal and coagulate into something
More than a god
But less than a man.
You’ve hardened.
You look down at your body,
Your stomach,
Your hands.
Your new skin is blue and glowing and translucent
And it contrasts so beautifully with the bright red afterbirth that covers your body.
You lick some from your fingertips.
It’s raspberry-flavoured.
Welcome to Nowhere-Land.
Welcome to Nirvana.
Welcome to the jungle where the lion sleeps eternally
In it’s Rohypnol-induced coma,
And that old cannibalistic dog-eating-dog
Has finally devoured itself.
Yup, they’ve both kicked the can,
Screwed the pooch,
And invested in some nice rural property
Where they can pursue a very unprofitable career in agriculture.
You’re safe now.
As safe as can be,
As long as you keep moving ahead.
Facing forward
Just strolling on as your appendages wither and fall away.
You become acutely aware that you had better not stop,
Even for a moment,
To collect yourself.
You now faintly realize that
If you dare to turn around,
For even a second to glance back,
Your own Shadow will very likely
Consume and destroy you completely.
This is only because the light that is emitting from you
And illuminating your path
Is shining so brightly
That it blurs your vision.
You can hear the welcoming whispers behind you so clearly,
And the way is long,
And, in time, you convince yourself
That one peek won’t hurt.
You are invincible, after all.
Indestructible.
Eternal.
So you glance backward
And instantly
The Shadow falls upon you
(AND GREAT RIDLEY SCOTT!!!)
A thousand empty eyes staring through you.
A million hungry jaws snapping at
And clamping down
On you.
Screaming and scraping and tearing and rending
Your clear blue armor-flesh
To sunders.
The sounds of your own screams deafen you.
At last, The Darkness eclipses you
And you black out.
When you awaken,
If you awaken,
Your skin will once more be peach colored, salty, and edible.
The dog-eating-dog is back
And he‘s as hungry as ever.
The lion has awoken
And he’s lying to the lamb again.
But you don’t have to worry.
You can go back whenever you need to.
It’s okay.
Permit yourself.

-Randy J. Woodard.

Site in progress…

•June 15, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Hi, I’m Randy J. Woodard. You might know me from Facebook or from somewhere else… Anyway, I write a lot of bizarro fiction short stories and I have decided to post some of them here for your reading pleasure. Let the mayhem ensue…

 
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