Fiction

Dumpling's third eye was being difficult. It had migrated from the center of his forehead to the center of his manubrium.

You have too much hair here, rang a shrill, yenta voice in his head. Shave it all off, now.

"I'd rather not," Dumpling said. He sat down in the recliner and opened to a bookmarked page in his homemade edition of Les Chants de Maldoror bound in recycled foreskin.

If you know what's good for you, you will shave your chest this instant.

"Suck a goat, I'm busy."

His retort begat body-wide pain. Dull at first, a guinea pig nibbling on his knuckle, intensifying to a sewer rat gnawing at the back of his eyes, to a rose stem thrust down his urethra.

"All right, all right!" Dumpling cried.

He stumbled to the bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt, letting it slip off him onto the floor. He stared in the mirror as he ran the water and popped off the top to the shaving cream. The third eye held a hard, acrimonious gaze.

I'm losing my patience.

"I'm going as fast as I can."

Dumpling wet and lathered his chest. Grabbing a cheap disposable from the medicine cabinet, he began shaving, making long, rushed strokes from belly to neck. Small islands of shaving cream and hair floated in the rising water in the sink when he washed the razor.

A thought came.

He pressed the razor to his chest, handle pointing to his chin, and swiped it upwards towards the eye. He flinched, felt the blade cut into him.

That wasn't very smart.

This second blast of torment felt like sodomy by a broken glass phallus. He crumpled to the floor, spasming uncontrollably in pain.

You can't hurt me. I know what you want to do before you even realize what you want to do. You can't stop me. I'm not going away. I'll never go away. I'm going to induce a cluster of pilonidal cysts. I'll give you a carnivorous third testicle. I'll tie your stomach and lungs together and toss you down a flight of stairs.

The voice continued, maintaining it's booming, venomous pronouncement no matter how loud Dumpling shrieked: I'll rape you for a month.

It said: Just like you did to me.

Another thought came. Haunting ghosts sure have gotten inventive in the 21st century.

The voice said: How could you do that to your own mother?

October/November 2004

Third Eye by Craig Sernotti Dumpling's third eye was being difficult. It had migrated from the center of his forehead to the center of his manubrium. You have too much hair here, rang a shrill, yenta voice in his head. Shave it all off, now. "I'd rather not," Dumpling said. He sat down in the recliner and opened to a bookmarked page in his homemade edition of Les Chants de Maldoror bound in recycled foreskin. If you know what's good for you, you will shave your chest this instant. "Suck a goat, I'm busy." His retort begat body-wide pain. Dull at first, a guinea pig nibbling on his knuckle, intensifying to a sewer rat gnawing at the back of his eyes, to a rose stem thrust down his urethra. "All right, all right!" Dumpling cried. He stumbled to the bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt, letting it slip off him onto the floor. He stared in the mirror as he ran the water and popped off the top to the shaving cream. The third eye held a hard, acrimonious gaze. I'm losing my patience. "I'm going as fast as I can." Dumpling wet and lathered his chest. Grabbing a cheap disposable from the medicine cabinet, he began shaving, making long, rushed strokes from belly to neck. Small islands of shaving cream and hair floated in the rising water in the sink when he washed the razor. A thought came. He pressed the razor to his chest, handle pointing to his chin, and swiped it upwards towards the eye. He flinched, felt the blade cut into him. That wasn't very smart. This second blast of torment felt like sodomy by a broken glass phallus. He crumpled to the floor, spasming uncontrollably in pain. You can't hurt me. I know what you want to do before you even realize what you want to do. You can't stop me. I'm not going away. I'll never go away. I'm going to induce a cluster of pilonidal cysts. I'll give you a carnivorous third testicle. I'll tie your stomach and lungs together and toss you down a flight of stairs. The voice continued, maintaining it's booming, venomous pronouncement no matter how loud Dumpling shrieked: I'll rape you for a month. It said: Just like you did to me. Another thought came. Haunting ghosts sure have gotten inventive in the 21st century. The voice said: How could you do that to your own mother?