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CHIMERAWORLD #1, SAMPLE

HUSTLER:

I'm propped on the toilet, taking a shit. The door is locked. The back of a Hustler is rubbing against the sore head of my cock. I'm looking down at a blonde with obviously fake tits and a hairless cunt that glistens in the fake lighting.

Avoiding her eyes, I concentrate on the glistening, pink opening; the sinews of stretched flesh slipping down into the dark-warm womb. This is one of the only ways I understand transcendence.

I'm standing in front of the toilet now. I beat off into my shit and flush the whole concoction down.

This is one of the only ways I know how to transcend.

TEEN BEAVER:

I lock myself in the bathroom before dinner. I smell mother's cooking mingling with the smell of my shit. It smells like rotting flesh, which immediately makes me think that nothing is ever that important in this world.

I'm flipping through the latest issue of Teen Beaver. Most of them can't spread their cunts as wide as I like, but there are other details that overshadow this. The fact that they are so pristine, for one. The meat has yet to darken and the opening makes perfect sense; it hasn't been manipulated by an inevitable bastion of cocks. There is nothing worse than a cunt that looks like rotten meat.

There's a knock on the door, my older brother on the other side no doubt; big dumb fucking jock.

"Paul, man . . . I need to take a shower before dinner."

For some reason Scott always has to take a shower before dinner.

"In a minute." There's a picture of a girl in the back getting it from a smug looking preppy type. It's contradictory, but sometimes I like the way a cock looks inside a girl's cunt. I guess because I imagine it's mine.

The idea makes me immediately hard, so I'm standing over a fresh pile of shit while my brother waits outside. I've turned on the water faucet because the idea of him being so close makes me nervous.

The picture that turns me on the most shows the girl's cunt only moments after the preppie's cock has been pulled out; I can see inside, which is where everything is happening. The opening is perfect. The cock is still in the picture, pumping steamers of come onto the tufted-black shelf of her pubis.

CHERRY:

We are usually quiet around the dinner table. Everything else is the sound the jaw and lips make while eating, which, when singled out, is foul. I pick at my food, but they're used to it. Dinner is one of the few places I can think of where nothing's changed. I look around the table at their vague expressions.

My brother eats whatever I won't and I head off to my bedroom. I think about calling Curt, but I just don't feel like it. Instead, I lie in the dark and silence of my room and try my best to clear my head of all the bullshit that has been so haphazardly placed there.

I try to fall asleep, but it's too early.

My mom on the other side of the bedroom door: "Can you come help your brother do the dishes?" It is an automatic response to her life, which has been much of the same.

"Paul?"

The sound of my breathing resonates in my head.

There are a few seconds between each breath in which to hear her from very far away. She wants me to know that she is there. Nothing has changed. It has nothing to do with dishes.

I am floating on the brink, in the darkness, and all she can hear is her own voice. I hear it barely, but it's more like an echo; the echo of everything she's been handed down. I'm too far down inside. Still, she wants me to hear it. Needs me to, even.

When I open the door she is standing there like a ghost. A long time ago I slipped out of her cunt and into a world that has only confused me. She was much stronger then. Life and all of it's sharp corners has worn her down into a dull, faded entity. I feel sorry for her, but only when she's asleep. I'm not sure why this is.

"Your brother's already started. You could start becoming a member of this family, you know."

It makes me think that I'm from another world all together.

"Fine," I said, walking past her.

Scott's hunched over the edge of the sink, his thick-flexed neck covered in sweat. "Fuck, dude," he says. "I'm on the football team and I still manage to do my chores." A pile of the dishes Scott has washed are piled in the sink next to him. Sidling up to the behemoth, I rinse. We finish in ten minutes and I'm back up in my room, looking through an old issue of Cherry. I turn to the picture of a redhead with a shaved cunt, which is smeared with come from when she fingered herself a few panels back. I can see part way in, but not all the way.

I take out an old issue of Slit instead. I'm still searching for the perfect cunt, but I don't know if I'll ever find it. They're all perfect in a way, but it's not the same. ...