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Ribbit!

Posted by Graveyard Frank August 09, 2017

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Frog ate flies until he died.

Then, they ate him.

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astromegalophobia

Frank now drifts calmly. Hours ago, exiting the Kirkwood Gap, he’d zigged. He should have zagged. Asteroids smashed into the podbay, depressurizing the cabin. He’d no choice but slip on an exosuit and slip out the back hatch. Tumbling into space. It would’ve fetched a fair price in the Callisto market, but the Octokin of Europa wouldn’t get their shipment of tinned fish. Jupiter loomed. A menacing ball. Massive yet ephemeral. Silent yet tumbling with storms. He was caught in its gravity. Frank wasn’t afraid to die but puncturing that deadly gas giant left him senseless. However, he’s since calculated that he was traveling roughly at the speed and trajectory as his doomed ship. Twenty-nine moons spun and Callisto, his destination, was coming around. He’d not vaporize inside Jupiter. He’d splat into conventional rock and ice. A new crater on that pocked moon. He could get his mind around that.

Nosferatu, Please

That little black dude broke into our house again last night. Peering at us in bed with his open left eye, a sore-riddled husk wrapped in a moldy shroud. Oh, the stench! You know the stink those things have, right? Shit and brimstone. And they carry disease. The Plague, “capital P,” in fact. And they’re rapey as fuck. “Hide yo kids, hide yo wife!” you know? Well, we all made it okay aside from the walls being coated in feces and semen, the bed sheets are chewed and the headboard splattered with gore. Anyway, I am not one to throw the n-word around lightly, but that n has ruined the neighborhood. Der Nachttöter. The night killer. Or call it what you will— Nachzehrer, Neuntöter. By any name, this one is just my dead neighbor Niklaus Nachtfalter, drowned in Lake Lanier last month and now making a mockery of the HOA covenants.

Seppuku

In that woman is a heart that I love. It beats in time with my own, as I press her chest to mine. It blushes her cheeks when she beams that puzzled smile at me as I fumble in my apron, lost in the kitchen. It pounds in her wrist when I grab it and twist it to the small of her back. It flutters as I pull the kukri from my boot and zip tie her hands to the kitchen chair. In that woman is a heart that I love. But soon— Halved along the ventricular septum. Basted in butter. Flash fried with salt and pepper. Five minutes on each side in the skillet. A nice crust but still a little pink on the inside. (Just how I like it). Add fresh zucchini, avocado and baked red potatoes, seasoned— In my stomach will be a heart that I love.

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