Channel Zero






a madness love
births a massacre pleasure
cracked television sets display
wire cages deep deep inside
watching the figures flicker flicker
fingers touch the screen
glossing over her faces hidden between the panes
dried blood on the glass and she’s clutching the cage sides
shake the clouds away
shake the clouds away
her high heels crush stamen
so she can drink the fluid
so she can lie down on asphalt
with her skin stretching enjoying
multiple slick surges
and perforations of capillaries drawn into her
deep inside
the electric shock of the walls 
i watch intently as
the moon spins to the left and the
dust comes to rest
turning dials
to control the electric corset
a vinyl flash
enjoying a taste of mars on the electric farm

By Peter Marra

A Kosher Buisness

Michael slid the stocking up his leg, it was a slim leg, white and feminine, even for an adult male. He liked his legs so much better sheathed in nylons, they were smoother and their contour was womanly. He admired himself in the full length mirror of his hotel room, the knee length red dress, his black bob wig, delicate make up and those long legs which he prided himself on. They were the element that made his masculine self pass for a female, many a fella had mistaken him for a true woman, and he loved passing.
Michael was not a homosexual, he was married with two adolescent children, Kara and Luke. This business trip was just a chance to let his hair down, so to speak. He would go out to the darkened bars and enjoy the glances he received, some favorable, some . . . not so favorable. He went by Michelle in this city, Michelle my belle. Michael hoisted his posh leather purse onto his rather broad shoulder, and slipped his rather large feet into size 12 heels. One last glance at himself gave him the confidence he needed to step out into the night, and claim his identity.
The first bar he entered was swaying with popular dance beats, and Michael felt his hips start to swing. He had a couple of johns join him in his rhythmic elation, most were unaware of his true self, tucked safely back between his legs. Others looked as though they knew something was a miss but couldn’t exactly place the truth of their unease. After several rounds of two stepping with a handsome burly creature, Michael felt a certain pressure. The man had an erection and was pressing himself deeper into ‘Michelle’. Michael attempted to pull back but the man seemed determined to fuck.
“Baby,” the big man crooned. “Why are you being such a prude?”
He smelled of strong scotch and beer, obviously the man was drenched in alcohol and the fumes could send him into a fiery blaze if anyone struck a match too close.
“I-I just need some air,” Michael answered in the falsetto he adopted for his late night role. He pushed the big man back and hurried towards the exit, he felt the stirring eyes follow him as he departed. Once outside, Michael breathed a sigh of relief, he enjoyed his ruse, up to a certain point. A hand gripped his shoulder tightly and Michael was turned around to face the muscle of his dance partner bearing down heavily on him.
“Where the fuck you going, bitch?”
“I told you I needed some air,” Michael said firmly pulling himself out of the man’s grasp. The open palm hit Michael suddenly, like a golem jumping up from the sewer. His wig went flying. The man stared at Michael, a look of disgust welling on his face, a look that was soon replaced by sheer anger.
“You fucking queer faggot, what the fuck are you doin’ at this bar! Dancing with a fucking straight man?!” he shouted. “You trying to get my dick boy!”
Michael knew what would happen now: this neanderthal would pummel the shit out of him in the dark street. He would leave him bloody and broken, and Michael would have to explain that to his wife, he didn’t want to do that, he didn’t want any of that. As the fist reached out for Michael’s face, Michael stabbed him square in the gut with his foldable Kershaw blade, the same one he used for field dressing deer. The man slumped down and he let him fall.
Michael bent over and picked up his disheveled wig from the sidewalk. Then he stepped in the road and hailed down a yellow cab. He hoisted the big man up and pushed him in the back.
“7th Ave and 19th street.” The cabbie nodded, and gave a backwards glance at the bent over guest. “The big man had a little much to drink tonight,” Michael answered his questioning gaze with a sweet lithe voice.
They arrived at the back entrance of Michael’s hotel and he dragged the man out of the car, then paid the driver. He hauled the bull over to the dark alley and leaned him against the brick wall. Michael hit him square across the face, causing a rousing reaction from his victim.
“You slimy son of a bitch,” Michael breathed in hushed rage. “Can’t a girl go out dancing without some mother fucking redneck fuck trying to stick his dick in her?”
“Mmmherm . . .”
“I didn’t think so,” Michael plunged the blade into the man’s groin this time, eliciting a shrill squeal from the severed testosterone. He stabbed him again and again in the thick of his belly. He ran the blade across his face and drove it into his meaty forearms. Michael wasn’t sure if the man was quite dead yet but he decided to get to work anyway. He pulled out a roll of saran wrap from his purse and placed it next to the body. Michael decided he would take the choice cuts first: a big hunk of belly meat. He sawed off the flesh with his handy blade and wrapped it in the plastic. Then he started cutting off a piece of the inner thigh, which had already been slightly mutilated and tenderized by the stabbing. Michael went about the body making his selections until he had 7 different pieces of plastic wrapped meat. He reached into his handbag again and pulled out a folded paper grocery sack, he placed his parcels inside. He withdrew several wet naps, from the chasm that is every woman’s purse, to clean himself with. Looking at himself in his compact mirror, Michael decided he was more than passing and the excitement of the kill had given his face a healthy flush. He smiled at himself and strolled through the front door of the hotel.
Michael’s flight was the next morning and he was more than ready to leave. He was sure someone would be discovering his handy work right about the time he was walking to his gate, the chunks of man meat carefully skinned and re-wrapped in his carry on bag. They looked like inconspicuous slices of pork. Later that night he would cook dinner for his family, and they would all marvel at the wonderful cuts of meat he picked up on his business trip, praising his expert culinary skills, and asking for seconds. Michael just smiled, loving his secret life as Michelle, the humble cannibal.

By Emily Smith-Miller


Rage, and then more of the same but stronger. He felt it, felt it like the blood rushing through his veins. It was more than a clichéd raging current, it was a murderous intent on exacting a revenge so brutal it could be considered legally justified.
“Don’t,” said the voice of his victim. But he was the victim, not this useless skeletal frame wrapped in flesh. It was all about him and no one else.
“I will,” he replied. “You know I will. You’ve known this as long as you can remember. Do you remember?”
The flesh nodded.
“Well, then. Swallow the knife.” He pulled the flesh’s tongue out with spiked tongs, placed the tip of the blade against it, an oozing of blood beginning. The flesh winced, the flesh gurgled, the tongue of the flesh bled more profusely.
“Slowly,” he told the flesh, “swallow it slowly and it will hurt less at first. The pain won’t truly begin until it cuts the back of your throat.”
The tip disappeared into the now muted gurgle of the flesh. Soon the revenge would find its release.
He could tell the flesh wanted to talk but the knife was too deep, there was too much blood, the gurgling was choking the flesh into a red-faced cadaver. “What is it?” he cooed, as if to a small child whimpering about not getting candy. “What do you really want?” He pushed the knife in further, felt a splatter on his cheek, just under his right eye. The blood of the flesh was spurting out, he felt the hands of the flesh (oh how smooth they were) grabbing at him, the nails of those fingers so sharp, just like he wanted them. They were raking, clawing. He wanted them to draw his own blood.
“There, there,” he went on, the knife moving deeper by increments. “Doesn’t that taste so good?”
The flesh was dead, or at least appeared to be. Yet the fingers, the nails, still clawed their message of I Don’t Want To Die. Or was it something else? Yes, it was. The flesh was raking its message of I HATE YOU FOR KILLING ME.
“Now, now,” he said, smelling blood but unsure of whose, “you love the taste of revenge.”
If only flesh could talk.

By Jeff Callico