Dal Marsters

Patrick Bateman voice: “That’s bone.”

I feel seen.

An image of a half-sunken vintage alarm clock in a surreal swampy prairie surrounded by chipped and broken detritus amid pools of pastel waters under a turquoise sky. A slogan at the top reads, "Live every day it's tomorrow."

Those are veneers.

The constancy of blooming flowers in an ever-changing world
#classicmono #bloomscrolling #photography

That’s a beautiful observation. I’d like to think that’s how divinity plays with us throughout life, too.

Corey Booker did his part. Now they rest of us need to get in good trouble too. On April 5 there will be protests happening nationwide.

Take a quick anxiety break. Read some funny short fiction. dalmarsters.substack.com/p/and-tears

"Let me throw a cupcake at that," Barnton responded, attempting a new time-buying think phrase. According to his wearable Vibe Codex, they took it funny. Encouraged, he chucked a cupcake...

Except for those who do, no one writes short fiction like me. Enjoy a quick visit to a tangential timeline.
dalmarsters.substack.com/p/let-me-thr...

An orange square image displaying the story title: And Tears. Below is an excerpt: "It's called braying, actually," Kirsten thought as she dialed the settings on her noise-canceling headphones. The loud ignorant family blocking her view of the flapping...

Here is some short fiction inspired by a dear educator friend's candid last words fantasy. dalmarsters.substack.com/p/and-tears

dollar store pierogie costume

Oh yeah

Say amen somebody.

What size of pipes are we talking about on this organ?

So true. But what about the red vine in the spiked coke situation?

Once more shown the golden slow, he’s clothed in holy robes of cream and wine. Secured from under slumber’s snug, a treasure licks and tickles him with luxuries to come. In me, she breathes, find cushions for your tongue. Your corsage of blackberry becomes.

A shy hectocotylus uncurled like a natal fern leaf hoping for reciprocal unconcealment of a brine-readied mantle, a beckoning iridescent metachrosis that whispered, “yes.”

“Your outie likes the sound chocolate chips make when poured into a glass measuring cup.”

I nodded at the truth of it and offered, “And he’s the one that wipes his ass with his palm.” 8/8

The hostess pointed her vape pen at the bent Wookiee and informed me that “there are two kinds of people in this world: hemorrhoids and pus.” 7/8

“That’s the fuckingist thing I've ever heard,” he told someone invisible. Their silent reply - illuminating. 6/8

“I couldn’t give two slip-on fucks who you are,” I grumbled. “With prejudice, I will kick both your balls up your asshole if you keep at me with that douche chewable breath." He expected more. "You...hospice jockstrap,” I yielded for his negative gratification.

“Let’s all get hard-ons and play podcast!” someone shouted. The gaunt, low-budget Chewbacca staring at me since I arrived finally whispered with visible halitosis, “Am I that guy from Hoobastank or are you just glad to see me?” 4/8

Of all the dystopian parlor rooms I’ve found myself in, this was the first to offer clam sausage entrees. It fit. It fit with all the full-term fur birds discovering new ways to express each other’s glands or whatever that noise was. 3/8

Brandishing the swagger of a sexually active nursing home resident, he confided too loudly in his yeti scab-looking buddy that he would “fuck anything that sticks to me.” 2/8

As soon as he winked at the hostess, I knew he would be sleeping in cold piss tonight. 1/8

He described his level of expertise as unfair. I brown-nosed him to within an inch of his hatehug life. Balancing a performative aplomb, he would confide in me.

“Our lives are a middle school one-act about a dead superhero.”

Yet, alone, we both knew, “If you weren’t my heart, I would beat you.”

A mad scientist movie where all the monsters wear diapers.

Her t-shirt read “Our bodies. Our desserts.” I moved my apron aside. Her eyes found the curly font of my ribcage tattoo: I put the help in cry for help.

Above this temporary CinnaBonzai tent, geese in geometric solidarity honked their sedulous bafflegab.

“Get wormed,” she muttered striding past.

To the left to the left