Mel's End and Start by David Sydney

“Get up, Mel.”
It was 3 AM.
“I said, get up.”
Tired from working all day selling tiles and carpet remnants, Mel kept sleeping.
“All right, let me put it this way… GET UP!”

He was now upright in bed. He looked around the dark room. Mel often slept in his platypus pajamas without a nightlight.

“YOU'RE COMING WITH ME.”
There was no one there.

“IT'S OVER, MEL.”
And here he’d hoped to sleep until at least 5:30 AM.

“Wait a minute, whoever you are…”
Mel realized it was a disembodied voice. There was no one there.
Was he hallucinating?

“YOU'RE NOT HALLUCINATING. SO, STOP THINKING THAT.”
It was a voice from out of the whirlwind. Just to establish its authority, it shook every wall in the room. Mel's award for selling the most indoor carpet for the month of June 2 years before in his Uncle Leo's showroom fell to the floor.

“YOUR TIME’S UP.”
“What?”
“UP MEANS IT'S OVER. YOU'RE COMING WITH ME.”

He didn't like the taste of the chicken fingers and green beans he'd eaten for dinner. Was this a case of…
“IT'S NOT A CASE OF FOOD POISONING MAKING YOU FEEL THIS WAY. I SAID IT'S OVER. I'M THE ANGEL OF DEATH.”

Mel knew enough about imitation Oriental carpets and vinyl floor tiles to suspect an imitation voice. He didn't work at his Uncle's showroom without learning something.
“ALL RIGHT.”
The voice wasn't pleased.
“IF YOU'RE GOING TO BE THAT WAY, I'LL BECOME WHAT YOU'RE FANTASIZING RIGHT NOW.”
Immediately, there was a…platypus. A 6-foot platypus materialized by the bed.

What could be more harmless than that, he'd thought. It wasn't a T Rex, after all. Perhaps it had been something he ate? If not the chicken fingers, then the unrefrigerated rice pudding had led to a very bad dream.
“A T REX? WHY DO YOU THINK TYRANNOSAURS ARE SO BAD?... AND STOP DWELLING ON FOOD.”
Mel stopped thinking entirely.
Who would imagine a platypus that size could be as terrifying as a T Rex?
“YOUR LIFE'S OVER. YOU'RE GOING TO THE NEXT PLACE WITH ME.”
Day after day selling floor covering with his cousins Sam and Leo Junior… And it had come to this. Walking out the door behind a platypus into his next life.
And all this time he’d dreamed of a better, future, heavenly existence. Something way beyond tiles and carpet remnants. Who wouldn't?

“YOU'RE GOING TO THE OTHER PLACE, MEL.”
“What?”
Fire? Brimstone? Hot coals?
“YOU SOUND LIKE WE'RE GOING TO AN OUTDOOR PATIO. WE'RE TALKING THE OTHER PLACE, MEL.”

He stared at the Death Angel who motioned with a flipper for him to follow. It would soon be 6 o'clock. Time to open the showroom doors. Time to suffer eternally selling floor covering. Endless haggling customers trying to save a few bucks. His Uncle, who coincidentally passed at the same time from a coronary condition, going to the same place, eternally comparing him to Sam and Leo Junior. 5-foot 6-inch Uncle Leo, chomping on a cigar, lost in smoke. And Mel, missing out on the ‘Salesperson of the Month Award’ with its small plaque again and again. Mel, derisively reminded eternally of not working hard enough, of not moving enough carpet remnants…

--

David Sydney is a physician. He has had pieces in Little Old Lady Comedy, 101 Words, Microfiction Monday, 50 Give or Take, Friday Flash Fiction, Grey Sparrow Journal, Bright Flash Literary Review, Disturb the Universe, Pocket Fiction, R U Joking, Entropy Squared, and Rue Scribe.

Batter Up! by John Patrick Robbins

And take a swing to collapse the skull like a cantaloupe as brains splatter like candy and screams replace laughter and childish glee.

We lust in secret for violence, mask our truths, enraged just by how pathetic our society has truly become.

From the idiots who praise superhero movies for their depth to the jacked-up truck jerk-offs all flying Old Glory, whose colors have faded with the passing of yet another day underneath a sweltering sun.

The brain-dead gather to take selfies at riots, as the homeless just yearn to escape the cycle.

We step over corpses en route to Disneyland to pretend that the white picket fence dream still exists.

As Mommy gets bent over the kitchen table for her Only Fans, and Pops is figuring out what to do with that hooker's decomposing corpse in the trunk of his car.

While Bobby is a quarterback hero of high school, yet prefers the reflection in the mirror of his high heels and fishnets.

And his big sister just wishes to get the fuck out of this nowhere town.

We whitewash reality and roast marshmallows over a dumpster fire's flames.

Pretend hope does exist with equality.
As Officer Mitchel just wants to blow his brains out rather than face another day.

The happy ending is a momentary release; the ugly truth is a permanent scar.
Everyone's ready to fulfill an internal bloodlust.

The prisons overflow, and the psych ward is filled with those who are far more rational than those controlling our destiny upon their soapboxes and in Senate meetings.

Doing essentially nothing, as they always have.

Anarchy rules by proxy, my children.
We are playing with fire upon a moment's notice.

You cannot hit the ball unless you swing the bat.
Care to chase bullets with me, my dear?



John Patrick Robbins is a Southern Gothic writer.
His work has appeared in Horror Sleaze Trash, Piker Press, Schlock Magazine, The Dope Fiend Daily, Fixator Press and here at Disturb The Universe.

He is the author of Midnight Masochism and Are We Dead Yet?
Both of which are published by Black Circle Publishing.

His work is often dark and always unfiltered.

Ain't Too Proud To Beg by Sam Barbee

I slouch at the barroom table. Sip a second hot java
            and re-sort last night. Other survivors, would-be
            shag dancers and troubadours, line the counter.

Noon's cold fingers tap love's hourglass – twin pendulums,
            one hollowing. My arms and head droop
            on the checkered tablecloth. The juke box wails

my most-recent sweetheart's song – the classic Temptation's
            groove snags right before the bridge – should take control
            of this dive where neon promises flutter between

low lights and smudged windows. My hangover resolves
            not to rise and smack the spin to skip the record's
            polished scar, or the damned fleck of dust allowed to drift free.

This selection further-dizzies my stupor: some 60's hubbub
            about a woman who left a lover out of rhythm –
            cheated their common ruin, denied passion honorable demise.

I shy from greasy brunch. Dodge bottom-shelf bourbon's
            stray bullets. No hairy dog lubricant can punctuate
            like salve of silence…                 But the idle juke box

whirs again as one of my mates rattles in a fresh quarter
            to join the other grains of sand pouring toward conclusion.
            Our free-spinning chorus of musical prose serenades

somewhere between silvered solutions and no cellphone
            message. I hydrate with room-temp coffee.
            Pure black as poured.

--

Sam Barbee’s newest collection is Apertures of Voluptuous Force (2022, Redhawk Publishing). He served as President of the Winston-Salem Writers, and also NC Poetry Society; and is one of the originators of the Poetry In Plain Sight — now in its thirteenth year — a poetry initiative featuring NC poets on broadside posters and display them in NC towns statewide. His poems currently appear in Cave Wall, Asheville Poetry Review, and The Anthology of Appalachian Writers (WV).

In the Sun, They All-Pass by Michael Lee Johnson

In the bright sun in the early morning
Gordon Lightfoot sings.
When everything comes back,
to shadow thin, thunderclaps—
and drips of rain.
The coffee pot is perking again.
Even though Gordon has passed.
I experience a mix of life.
A blender of the plurality of singulars
mounting movie moving frames
all returning to memory and mind.
The echoes of insanity, a whisper
schizophrenic, Poe’s haunting verses.
The romances of Leonard Cohen
are hidden in foreign hotel rooms,
lost keys, forgotten scenarios
and forgotten places.
All silence skedaddles
away from death stolen
those leftover tears of a lifetime—
now expired on earth—
seek through
pain abstains.



Michael Lee Johnson is a poet of high acclaim, with his work published in 46 countries or republics. He is also a song lyricist with several published poetry books. His talent has been recognized with 7 Pushcart Prize nominations and 7 Best of the Net nominations. He has over 653 published poems. His 330-plus YouTube poetry videos are a testament to his skill and dedication. He is a proud member of the Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.org/.

When Gods Retire by Eric Chiles

Zeus shuffled off to a valley
in the Shenandoahs’
to distill white lightning.

Aphrodite got a job marketing
pharmaceuticals; she had
a cameo in a Cialis ad.

Bacchus joined
a twelve-step program
and started giving
motivational talks
and running retreats.

You can find Mars behind
the gun counter at Cabelas
pushing semi-automatic ARs.

Neptune left the Mediterranean
to run river cruises
with the naiads.

Apollo briefly dabbled
in publishing
but found eternity through
social networking.
With Hermes, he pioneered
Instagram.

--

A former newspaper editor and adjunct professor, Eric Chiles is the author of "What Was and Will Be" (Resource Publications, 2024), and his poetry has appeared in journals such as 3Elements Review, The Avenue, Comstock Review, Paterson Literary Review, and Rattle. Grandfather to a dozen grandsons, he wishes he had a granddaughter.

Strung Out by Anthony Ward

Crouched to attention
Hair torsioned from the
Neck of the violin insinuating strings
Ams melded from bony wood
In perfect harmony with the instrument
Lachrymose semi-breathing notes resembling body
Braying emotional shards through tentative vibrancy
Through crotchety quivering quavers
Intensely irate and consoled
Scything sound from mellifluous maple
Congealing into amber thoughts
Sweat seeping from the timbre
Bloodied by the end of the bow.

--

Anthony loves the way words sound through silence. He is inspired by the nature of the world and the expression of art as humanity decrees to discover itself. He writes to express the overwhelming beauty of the natural world with the inspiring admiration of artistic creativity. He has recently been published in Shot Glass Journal, Jerry Jazz Musician, Dear Booze, and Mad Swirl.

bent too far by J.J. Campbell

at what age did you
realize wishes never
come true

that no one is willing
to be helpful without
getting something
in return

you ever tell a woman
you love her and her
immediate reaction
was to laugh

there isn’t enough
alcohol in the world
for those nights

burn holes in the carpet
and all the spoons are
bent too far

the baseball cards
are worthless

and no one gives two
shits about all these
books

everything is digitized

even crime

--

J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is a 3 time Best Of The Net nominee and was recently nominated for The Pushcart Prize. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at The Beatnik Cowboy, Synchronized Chaos, The Dope Fiend Daily, Yellow Mama and Horror Sleaze Trash. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)