Dog Oil Press

DOP# 65 - Babies Are Sweet

Babies Are Sweet
by Chris Dean

Decapitating a child was difficult for a woman like me, a mother, the first few times. And chopping an infant's head off may technically be easier than a boy or girl of eight or nine, but I swear I'll just never get used to it. I think it's the gurgling. You really cannot tell if that last gurgle is simply blood and pulpy flesh oozing through their throat hole or if it was a happy baby noise that they were trying to make just before you killed them. I find it disconcerting. I suppose it's my maternal instinct kicking in.

DOP #63 - In this Circular World

In this Circular World
by Alex Stout

So I was at this fare,
and this one guy with spiked hair,
asked me if I would dare,
and I said I didn’t care,
and said so with much flair,
as one who would juggle a pear,
walking past a sign in front of a lair,
that says “Trespassers Beware,”
which doesn’t really seem fair,
because why should I have to worry and not some guy who is not seen as a trespasser, which some people might say is discrimination, but I suppose that the art of security and protection really is just discriminating against those who might pose a threat.

DOP #62 - Freshly Severed Heads

Freshly Severed Heads
by Christopher Hivner

“If it hadn’t been trash day I never would have seen them and if their eyes hadn’t been open they wouldn’t have been able to accuse me. I didn’t do it, I pled with them, I don’t even know you. The one that was upside down glared at me, the left side of her face slowly sinking into a discarded piece of cheese pizza. Is it wrong that the slice still made my mouth water? It was from Rico’s after all. Why are you mad at me, I shout? I didn’t throw away a thick slice of Rico’s. Oh, and I didn’t kill you, dumping you in the trash, either. The one in the middle looks angry. He’s sitting on a block of urine-soaked cat litter like he’s about to make a speech. Tell me who killed you I laughed but he just stayed angry. The third guy looks like a ballplayer I knew once from Philly. We called him The Worm because he had fat, puffy lips. This guy who lost his body looks like he’s blowing me a kiss. Uh oh, the mound is shifting, he’s falling over. Yep, he’s gone, down to the bottom of the bin. Angry guy is still accusing me. Hey, I didn’t do nothin’. You know what, I’ve had it with all of you and your attitudes. I’m going . . .”

thwack thump

“Oh man, this isn’t Rico’s, it’s Mario’s. Yuck.”

Christopher Hivner keeps the world at bay in south central Pennsylvania and writes in several different genres because he can't decide who he is. His writing life is currently being documented at www.chrishivner.com

DOP #61 - Lobbying the Chac-Mool

Lobbying the Chac-Mool
By Joe Greco
 
Every morning the Chac-Mool’s jagged shadow inched across Alyssa’s bedroom shade.  She'd learned about him last year in seventh grade World Cultures class.  Lucky for her.  Otherwise she might have dismissed him, stupidly, as the plant hanging outside her window.  But, educated, she'd immediately recognized the Mayan rain god, come north to Modesto.

Alyssa’s problem was that no one believed in the old gods anymore.  They wouldn’t listen to her explain what an opportunity had presented itself.  The name “Chac-Mool” would barely leave her lips when her parents, neighbors, friends would screw up their faces and ask, “Who?  What?  Are you crazy?”

DOP #60 - The Riddle Of The Sphinx

The Riddle Of The Sphinx
by P. Francis Booth

Herb stood by the tour bus, wilting in the heat.

“Here.” Rae handed him a brochure. “All about the riddle of the Sphinx.”

Herb took a look. After all, he was pretty handy with crossword puzzles and whatnot.

After a half hour he’d gotten it, just as the planets reached an alignment unseen for four thousand years. Herb blurted out the answer. There was a loud grinding and a deep rumbling roar. A massive shadow fell over Herb and his party. It was the last thing they saw as it roused itself and began feeding.

P. Francis Booth is embroiled in a struggle for whiter whites and brighter brights.

DOP #59 - A Snack in the Dark

A Snack in the Dark
by Lukey Martin

In the hard dark of the day’s first hour I collected the instruments of sandwich around me and assembled them according to their nature. Finally I cried, “It’s a Sandwich,” and it was. I placed the sandwich in the toaster oven, set it to high and retired to my bedroom (and my space heater) to more pleasantly occupy the minutes. The kitchen that night was the very fist of winter.  

After a short while I returned to the kitchen to retrieve the food. The glass door of the toaster was opaque with steam.  Though there was still a minute or so remaining on the timer I removed the sandwich from the heat of the oven. I didn’t want it to be burned. Looking back, it seems my haste was my great error. I opened the door and smoke from the toaster oven mixed with icy clouds of my breath. 

DOP #58 - An Evening at the Circus

An Evening at the Circus
by Elizabeth Creith

"It's been a long time since we've done this, my dear,"
He said as he butchered a clown.
"Yes," I replied, as I chopped up a mime
Who was clutching the hem of my gown.

"Please hand me my chicken gun, darling," he said.
"Is this it?" I asked, "Here on the wall?"
"Thank you, sweetums," he said, as he loaded it up.
I replied, as he shot, "Not at all."

The clowns fell like bowling pins hither and yon.
"Is that all of them, snookums?" I said.
"I guess it is, honey. Let's go and wash up,
Have a nightcap and head off to bed."

Elizabeth Creith lives, writes and commits art at her home in rural Wharncliffe, Northern Ontario, occasionally distracted by her husband, dog and two cats.

DOP #57 - Stupid Kids

Stupid Kids
by Kevin Wallis

My right thumb just fell off, but at least I got the lid open.

Leave it to my stupid kids to buy the cheapest coffin on the market for dear ol’ Dad. Guess I should at least be grateful for this one act of idiocy, though. Not sure I could’ve pried a top-of-the-line lid off.

Stupid kids. They never gave a damn about me when I was alive, so why start after the Reaper came a-calling? I bet there won’t be a single flower over me. Hell, I’ll do a cartwheel if I have a headstone. Stupid kids.

Man, this lid is heavy. Figures, what with six feet of earth crushing it from above. I can’t see, of course, but I sure don’t feel any muscles on this body. Guess we just come with super-strength or something. Whatever, I’ll take it.

Hiatus & Kind Hearts And Coronets

We're taking another one week hiatus here at Dog Oil Press but we'll be back next Saturday. In the meantime, try out this trailer from the very understated and very dark black comedy, Kind Hearts And Coronets, in which Alec Guiness plays eight people who all meet with an untimely demise.

DOP #56 - The Mailbox Has Bad Breath

The Mailbox Has Bad Breath
by P. Francis Booth

Gary walked to the end of the lane, opened the mailbox and nearly barfed at the nauseating stench that wafted forth.

“Too early.”

He confirmed that the box was empty, shuddering again at the appalling smell.

“That’s rank.”

“So whaddya want? I can’t exactly brush my teeth.”

“Hold on.”

Gary returned a few minutes later with window cleaner and rags.

“What are you doing?”

“Cleaning you up.”

“Like hell. Do you brush your teeth with Windex?”

“Well…”

“No. Go get a bottle of Lavoris, or something…and a nice soft brush.”

“You’ve gotta knock this off. They’re gonna blame me”

“Don’t be paranoid.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re a mailbox.” Gary sighed. “I’ll be back.”

He was coming past the barn when the truck pulled up. He quickened his pace, but he was too late.

He opened the box. There was a new smell – several, actually – mingling with the familiar ones. It made his skin crawl.

“That’s the third mailman this year.”

“Mail carrier. She was kind of plump…very nice change. The others were so bony.”

“This has got to stop! I mean it!”

“Don’t be hysterical. We’ve all gotta eat. Got a mint?”

P. Francis Booth has spent many sleepless nights pondering the meaning of the lyrics to Tie Me Kangaroo Down Sport. A breakthrough is inevitable.