Wonder Hearse volume 0.1
[photo/ lit zine issue 0.1]
welcome to the almost first edition of the newly minted Wonder Hearse. a photo/lit zine experiment under active construction. come watch us work.
track: movimientos de dinero by Pablo, beat by Coca
[we’re not trying to tell you to do anything. we’re telling you.
press play, kickback, study the images, read the accompanying text if there’s any. keep it stepping and enjoy]
spark n sip
while we wait for the change
Bulking
[Flash Fiction]
It seems the human race will live and die at the 24 hour Planet Fitness lifting dumbbells toward heaven, a performance of self-worship born in the burning gut and miscarried to the densified doorstep of the himbo’s ever-expanding camera roll. Colonizer of his own device.
For only 3000 easy payments of your very flesh you too can make a portfolio of your most fuckable parts and still never get fucked. We all know the importance of fucking. We all together weep.
But take anyway all your money from the market and push it through the sluice: you might, with some blind dedication and a ripped up tank top, finally become a homunculus man worth licking the surface of. Making mineral of your pain, squeeze the substance out, that’s one leg up two legs up, that’s a sweat you can market.
You’re pruning up for all the wrong reasons. The inside festers as the outside hardens. A haggard heart can only take so much harbored hate; it skips the next several thousand beats. To child’s pose on the ground, bleeding steroid concentrate into the tectonic parking lot: PLEASE HELP. Not today, I’m so sorry, I just can’t. I can’t right now. The economy.
From the burlap body blooms a field of Narcissus, inevitably flattened beneath a passcode-only high rise condo at the edge of the last surface-dwelling civilization. There’s a gym right next door. Oh, it’s so convenient.
patience
i think i saw you try
there’s a sale on forever
chew
[Poem]
fire sweeps the floorboards
eating up a hunger
black as bone biting
the wound deeper for
somesuch place to bury a
dead seed born to a dead world
where starvation grows and dies
and grows for
all becoming
fodder
Baby’s Got Coin
[Flash fiction]
She spent the long stretch of day tossing wishes to the water, watched them warble then settle on beds of melting copper. Head down till sundown with needles in the back of her neck. To raise her head back toward the world would leave the wishes unattended. To pry herself from the wet cradle of hope and resume a life would be to know her wishes had not come true. There was nobody listening.
untitled
[Poem]
En un camino sin luces camino sin un pergamino que guíe
Se tú, a mi no me influyes a menos vitupera la pena que sigues
big little man in brooklyn
how honest does one need to be, to become fully transparent?
drug’s a blur if you do lifes
The Chiroptera on the Ceiling
[Flash Fiction]
It was the sunrays belting my eyelids (just like Josh did last night, except it wasn’t my palpebrae and he used a whip) what woke me, that and a drop of viscid liquid right on my brow. It all blurred as soon as I opened my eyes. Looking over, his shadow rested undisturbed, next to me, smudged like charcoal on paper.
Why is the mattress soaked?
A stench of wastewater hit me—What the hell, Josh; a familiar non recognizable scent, a mix of sawdust and metal.
For a moment I thought something was burning, but it didn’t give smoke.
We need to get those black-out curtains, ASAP, I muttered.
Stop getting blacked out like you’re in your twenties. It’s trying to sleep, stay quiet, Josh said in a voice that was not his. It was the sound of dragging an iron fence on concrete inside a hollow cave.
Ew. Are you making fish sauce over there? Nasty.
I clenched my fist into tight balls and rubbed my eyes, and blew the air out my nose. I could taste and feel his noisomeness coating my teeth (up the nose) and my brain with its malodorous net.
When I opened my eyes again—nothing. Still a blur, and the foul stench grew louder.
Josh, wake up, there’s something wrong, I said.
Silence and a pungent wave of malodor answered back.
Turning to him, not being able to see anything more than a smear, I nudged his body.
The smudge figure bellowed for what felt like a minute—all silence drowning under the hollow growl.
What the fuck, Josh, I said, jumping off bed.
Smudge Josh smeared and splattered in all directions, yet contained itself, it split and twisted like sentient ink.
Fogging my mind. My thoughts.
I lie behind your eyes and skin possessing your feeble fibers and fire forth against thee cursed blood blackened white hoods torn—rags twisted blue—as I Icarus hover over the ichor river steering your lineage towards doom, said Smudge Josh inside my head.
Josh, this isn’t funny, I said, bawling. Drinking my tears as I backed myself against the wall, Smudge Josh pressing forward.
Voices came from outside. From the door.
My body turned to a tombstone.
It was then that they opened the door and found us.
Josh’s head laid on top of his pillow.
I rubbed my eyes, and looked up.
To the ceiling. It was then, when I saw It.
God. Smiling dark.
It said: I’m always with you.
Watching.
the always trap of the self
hive
[Poem]
an individual is a swarm
of misunderstandings
whatever your meaning
it's lost in the buzzcupcake baked pain
keep your net dry
boy blue bye
thanks for reading. the wonder hearse never slows.
[thanks for lookin’ out, don’t forget to share and subscribe]
 | A guest post by
|
The Chiroptera is dope as shit.
“God smiling, dark.”
fantastique