Shinbone-Jimmi Campkin

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We’d swum upstream, arching through the reeds and the little currents swirling around the sharp rocks just below us, grazing our elbows and knees.  The river meandered under the watch of hills crumpled and confused like an unmade bed.  Nothing moved except the wind and the water; and two undernourished, hopelessly drunk, hopelessly pale little tadpoles in the dark green of a midnight dip.

She’d hotwired the car in a dark corner of the drive-thru.  Under the artificial glare of neon bulbs, we’d seen the young couple fingering each other damp before sucking away their respective juices and hitting the fries.  All she needed was a cigarette lighter and a hairclip and we had a car.  A good car.  A V6 apparently, whatever that means, with two belts of cheap vodka and an automatic transmission.  I didn’t mind.  It meant she could grip my cock and still keep one hand on the wheel.

The narrow lanes guided us.  I became convinced that she drove with telepathy, her delicate wrist flicking the wheel with minimal effort but maximum g-force.  No lights, because apparently that would draw attention to us, she spat the thing out of town and into the swaying countryside.  In town I felt anxious but with every passing mile and every fleeting farmhouse I realised that nature was calling us.  I knew that somehow, Everything Would Be Taken Care Of.  Any cop car that happened to chase us would end up in a swamp, or with a sudden puncture.  We weren’t evil and we weren’t out to kill.  Our goodness would see us through.

We left the road out of boredom and smashed through a fence in the gap between the posts.  After a lot of bouncing and protesting we ended up in a field of tall corn past the roof, everything hissing and slurping as though the car itself was peaking a weird acid high.  Leaving it behind, we lunged through this cathedral of corn stalks and plunged into the river.

*

We cuddle under the old railway bridge, naked and alone.  At night, her skin glistens like a thousand pairs of moonlit cats’ eyes.  She doesn’t shave anymore and I can grab full clumps of her leg and under her arms but I don’t care.  I want everything she has, and if there is more of her I want that too.

Under dead stars and rusting arches she rests in my arms and legs, reclined against my back pressed against a damp stone wall.  We talk about everything from hot dogs to Einstein.  She doesn’t believe in the theory of relativity, but she does believe in a formula for the perfect dog.  A bun the specific length of her hand, a quart of mustard, a quart of relish, and the merest fumes of mayo…Mid-conversation she presses two fingers into the forest of her bush and pisses out a stream of alcoholic nectar running between our legs.

I kiss the back of her head and tell her everything will be fine.  It’s my generic line.  I don’t know if she is unwell.  I don’t know if she needs everything to be fine.  She tweaks my nipples, pulls my hair and licks my chin.  Then a hair bobble frees her ponytail and she winds it three times around her wrist until her hand glows, veins protruding like the contours of an atlas, ready for a needle we don’t have.

I apologise and cuddle her tightly.  My cock grows and lifts, dragging itself against the small of her back.  Underneath the bridge, a midnight train rumbles and complains overhead sending dust onto our heads and a small colony of bats scrambling over the river.  I’m cold, filthy and pointless.  But she is in my arms…my arms…and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.


 

Born in November 1983, I have been writing in some form or another for most of my life, but I began to take it seriously as a career around 2003/2004.  Since then I have produced a novel, a novella and a series of short stories some of which are loosely linked into an overarching anthology.

Most of my stories come under the wide umbrella of ‘general fiction’, but I have experimented with genre pieces.  My short stories tend to be bittersweet, nostalgic, sometimes melancholic and (on occasion) examine the darker side of human nature and obsessions.

I welcome you to my site Jimmi Campkin, and I hope you find something here to please you.  If not, below you’ll find a big picture of me to scream obscenities at.

Menace-Jimmi Campkin

 

The cornfield waves and shimmers before us. I have you on my shoulders and we’re having our Woodstock moment, wooping and crying, high and mighty. The angel dust kicked in over an hour ago and my skin still feels electric, sweat turning to pebbles and rolling off my cheeks and arms.

Faced with a blazing autumn sun, we curse all the gods we can remember; we fuck the Christian god, the Greek gods, the Roman gods, the names and faces of our so called creators we motherfuck out of existence. Only the sun matters now; the heat and the light burning our eyes clear of the filth we see every day in town, before we fill our veins and noses with the truth. Out here in this field we are the only junkies; never kicking down but only kicking up, only fighting the glass ceiling, only trying to win… looking for our hill to die on. When that skinny, trembling greasy cunt met us in the stairwell last week, you looked him in his marble eyes and said firmly we are one of you, and I ended up taking a knife slash across the jaw. Yellow and swollen it hums and seethes, weeping like the rest of this cursed society. Even infected with dirt, it is still more pure than the rest of our neighbourhood.

The town has suffered under a never-ending eclipse, where the moon blocked the sun and has remained there to punish us, to leave us sans soleil, but with cruel glimpses around the black edges of a light we no longer have a right to. That’s why we steal cars and Coke cans. We punch in the holes, fill our lighters, drain the sugary garbage into the soil, and go miles and miles find these places where the glowing radiation above can burn away our cancers.

Climb the tallest trees and you can see the monster under the shadow. We know about the rows of terraced houses, like the walls of an old castle, keeping out intruders; like the walls of a prison, keeping everyone in.

Later in the evening the shimmering globe melts the horizon enough to slip beneath and disappear under us. We feel the warmth as we lay on the soil, protected by thousands of yellow shoots now standing guard over us. I slide my fingers into your jeans. From the shining smirk in your eyes I can’t tell if you are soaking horny, or if you’ve deliberately pissed yourself again.


Born in November 1983, I have been writing in some form or another for most of my life, but I began to take it seriously as a career around 2003/2004.  Since then I have produced a novel, a novella and a series of short stories some of which are loosely linked into an overarching anthology.

Most of my stories come under the wide umbrella of ‘general fiction’, but I have experimented with genre pieces.  My short stories tend to be bittersweet, nostalgic, sometimes melancholic and (on occasion) examine the darker side of human nature and obsessions.

I welcome you to my site Jimmi Campkin, and I hope you find something here to please you.  If not, below you’ll find a big picture of me to scream obscenities at.

Sweet- S.K. Nicholas/A Journal for Damned Lovers

Yeah gone lick her neck an’ when she roll about the bed I take her little fingers an’ slid em in my mouth an’ when she smile showing dem milky teeth I touch her face letting her know she be mine an’ me be hers an’ there’s this music on the screwy radio that lift me higher an’ higher an’ when she take off her clothes I jus’ sit there touching myself knowing I’m low but she be heaven yeah she heaven cast in orange sunlight an’ dust an’ when I push her legs apart she squeeze her nip nips an’ stick her tongue out at me an’ when I feel how wet she is it’s like life touch me somehow like I alive but ain’t no time to think cause she grab my ear an’ push me down yeah she make me eat her sweaty mush mush while she spread her fingers through my hair like I spread her lips an’ when I lick she grip an’ twist me like she wanna cut me an’ see blood so red like these lips I suck sticking in stained fingers all the way in to the knuckle so she arch her back an’ wiggle her toes yeah she wiggle her toes an’ chew ghosts an’ when she kick her feet the electricity come tingling through her spine like life be fine an’ when we clean up an’ go for food in some greasy spoon we eat chicken doused with salt an’ talk about Ghostbusters 2 an’ that river of slime an’ I tell her it’s like her bits an’ she says bits? an’ I’m like yeah your bits an’ her lip curls an’ she grins kicking my leg under the table an’ just like that I know she dig me an’ I dig her for she ain’t no ordinary soul cause she know the stuff that need to be seen an’ she see it even when they say she can’t an’ that’s why I love her an’ we gonna do this all on our own yeah we do this all by ourselves so there I go leaning over the table an’ here she come right back at me an’ when we kiss I feel her smiling ‘gainst me so I lick the grease off her chin an’ press my fingers into her glowy skin an’ she look me in the eyes calling me her sweet an’ life be fine yeah life be jus’ fine.


S.K. Nicholas is the creator of Myredabyss.com, as well as author of two novels A Journal for Damned Lovers Vol 1 & 2. Both of these books are available on Amazon. Additionally, Nicholas is a member of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective.

Semaphore-Jimmi Campkin

We build sandcastles just to destroy the pure, wet sand, dreaming of pineapples, messages in bottles and California.  Suntanned toes and blue lipstick, red dyed hair that runs in the rain and streaks your shoulderblades with plastic blood.  Lights twinkle over the harbour like your teeth in the sunlight.  You attract men, flies and trouble, and all three irritate you and spoil your fun.  You ask me, why can’t we burn down the local chapel on a Sunday morning?  And it isn’t rhetorical.  Hell hath no fury like an ex-Catholic.

Later that day, we conquer the sea.  You remove your red panties and pierce them with a shank of driftwood, plunging it into the oncoming tide in the name of Us… and what a concept that seems to me sometimes.  There is no Us, just You, hurtling around the Earth like a cannonball in the Hadron Collider, which you call the HardOn Collider whilst squeezing the blood out of my stiff cock, leaving it sore and limp like a dead chicken.

Today the sea is a flat plane of blue glass, and in the quiet the echoes are louder.  Clouds rumble overhead, keeping watch but never staying long enough to enforce justice.  I’m lying on my back as you fondle my balls with one hand and grip my neck with the other, asking me over and over again why I keep breathing.  It’s boring, apparently.  Breathing is boring.  I should just stop doing it.  My friends say you aren’t healthy for me.  But one by one they are going out, like Christmas tree lights, and soon it will just be Us again… or maybe just You, rubbing powdered glass into the slice you made in my arm with a fish-gutting knife, because…. well, just because.

 

Born in November 1983, I have been writing in some form or another for most of my life, but I began to take it seriously as a career around 2003/2004.  Since then I have produced a novel, a novella and a series of short stories some of which are loosely linked into an overarching anthology.
Most of my stories come under the wide umbrella of ‘general fiction’, but I have experimented with genre pieces.  My short stories tend to be bittersweet, nostalgic, sometimes melancholic and (on occasion) examine the darker side of human nature and obsessions.
I welcome you to my site Jimmi Campkin, and I hope you find something here to please you.  If not, below you’ll find a big picture of me to scream obscenities at.

Those Days – Jonathan O’Farrell

Her attention wandered from the raised dais, momentarily.

‘So what, give me this moment, life is precious’.

He had come up, a little chilled,

but otherwise mostly un-nibbled by scaly denizens, of the deep drowned land;

and now found himself, sat next to her

back seats, the theatre of life.

During a brief interlude they slipped out,

Perfection, just long enough, out of whatever character currently portrayed.

Stood, still dripping a bit, at the bar she had previously raised

he held not the next shows’ programme, nor blueprint, or deed of ownership.

None, but a mug of steaming cocoa,

cradled, supported by bones

and simple, vulnerable flesh,

but that now warmed and alive.

And at sometime he pulled out an imaginary blank sheet of paper,

kept carefully dry

and unwrapped that idea, from within a fold in his soul.

Thus, the interval minutes turned to hours.

Hours of maybe sitting in the sun, basking in wordless skies.

Or little trips out to look and listen to the land, breathe, a tale or two, of two.

Seemingly, the sun moved

into the awaiting skin of that land.

Apparently it always does that.

Undistracted, during a firefly inspired, yet otherwise unscheduled meditation

he and she must have noted, that,

‘Oh, night – where did that evening go?’

No answer that time, to give,

other than ‘night, sleep well – perfection’.

As a result to this easy sum of planetary rotation

who knows what they plotted

and scrapped happily in a hungry waste basket,

ready, as ever, to receive

the scrunched up brown paper, a new world of map making.

There may have transpired crumbs of toast in a bed, or beds,

a copious number of kettles boiled,

little rocks rearranged, card games.

Wildly predictive texts read with mirth, at their late

and multiple arrival, like buses.

Car washed, paint brushes rinsed.

At times, horrors – a gaggle of unwashed coffee cups,

negotiated  by poised but gently flicking tails.

We can deduce very little my students of life

from what remains;

other than to say, games and fun played a very large part

in these lives.

Hello Miss Dreamer, at the back, yes, ha hum!

Perhaps it may have been inscribed in a journal

by one or other of them at the time,

in those uncounted days.

But the bee waxed birch bark tube

may not have survived well the consequent flood.

So we cannot know, for sure,

but we can piece together a few possibilities and imagine . . .

to our hearts content, the rest . . .

of what their bodies reveal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Melt- Iulia Halatz

I have shared

land and sky

with you.

I have tasted

blood and honey.

My witch-oil turned

to dragon-fire

at your touch…

 

Soft fingers laid asleep

until your turmoil

woke them

for so long….

 

It feels like getting drunk

on old reddish wine

long softened

during times of

War

Equanimity

and

Comets.

What shall I pour in your glass?

Molten flowers

Golden ink

Lucid light

Unicorn mirth…

 

I dig your veins

for gold.

I find pure

bitter-sweet

amber nuggets.

 

I fear any story

whose ink

my words

can’t drink…

Yet I drip in yours

ever since.

 

When your arms call

and your lips

read all my feral kisses

How can there be no heaven?


“Writing is an Iron Tale, must be tough and sincere to the core of human perception of pain as valor. I am the grumpy T-Rex who started writing out of pain, not because of a polished world. Writing out of love is painless and herbivore. As we sometimes taste blood, ours or others’. Nevertheless, some words are so expensive that we are better left with them unspoken or write them with the ink of a Ghost…” She is a teacher, small entrepreneur and cyclist.

In Waiting- Kindra M. Austin

I waited at the back of his throat—

waited to hear him confess my name so I could come out from behind his teeth, and defend my claim

over him. Illusory love o’ mine

kept me cleaving to the bitter of his tongue; for all of her disdain he swallowed, I did

wash in, waiting.

 

We used to get shit-faced, and fuck each other mad, down by the river in

dew slick grass,

monstrous ‘neath the white-gold moon.

 

He’d give it to me good ‘til I was

howling, and scratching

bloodstained claws at that discerning watch

slung up high in sleeping cerulean.

 

I waited at the back of his throat—

waited for him to confess my name.

He didn’t.

 

Every time he chokes, he’s reminded of me.     


Kindra M. Austin is an author (information on her book can be found here), artist, and a Sagittarius Valkyrie from the state of Michigan—Go Detroit Red Wings! She likes her drinks corpse stiff, music loud as fuck, and classic big block muscle cars. You can find her filing through the souls of the slain at poems and paragraphs.