Tom Leins

by Horror Sleaze Trash on May 25, 2017


Tom Leins is a disgraced ex-film critic from Paignton, UK. His short stories have been published by the likes of Akashic Books, Shotgun Honey, Near to the Knuckle, Flash Fiction Offensive, Spelk and Horror Sleaze Trash. He is currently working on a novella called Boneyard Dogs. Get your pound of flesh at




By Tom Leins

There were hundreds of bogs in the Old Testament badlands, but the best one was known as the Glory Hole.

None of us knew what a glory hole was back then, except maybe Curtis Corliss, and if he did, he never let on. Damn kid was a pervert even then. He knew more about sex at the age of eight than I do at fuckin’ 38. His Daddy collected pornography the way some men collect gun magazines, or ex-wives: aggressively. Curtis would rip sticky pages out of the most dog-eared magazines at the bottom of his Daddy’s stash, and bring them to school in his satchel.

Growing up without a mother, I had never seen sights like those. So much pink. Man, those images were burned into my retinas as a child. I didn’t see that much pornography again until I was in prison, and even then, it wasn’t half as inventive. From what I saw, my cellmate’s wife lacked imagination.


People used to throw old electrical appliances in the Glory Hole. Car batteries. Old shoes. Beer bottles. I once saw Old Man Summerhill throw a deformed calf in there. One of those wretched, two-headed Siamese-looking fuckers. Doc Cassidy told us it was the biggest monstrosity he had seen in almost 40 years of veterinary practice, but I thought it was strangely beautiful. I once heard a rumour that a Guatemalan girl who turned tricks at old Luanne’s place threw a pair of stillborn twins in there, but I’m not sure anyone really knows for sure.  


I have been dragging Tulip through the forest for at least an hour. Dragging him through the scrub by his wrists. At least one of his shoulders has dislocated, and his body is bloodied up like a junkie’s mattress. He is naked save for his spandex trunks and his wrestling boots. The trunks are stained with shit, but the boots look pretty new, and it seems a shame to throw them away, all told. They have his name stitched on the tongues, so I wouldn’t be able to sell them anyway – not in Testament at any rate… and I’ll be damned if I pay for the gas to drive to another county.  


I’m glad it’s winter, as I’m not sure I could manage this job in the heat. Tulip is a big bastard. Bigger than me, and bigger than anyone I ever went toe-to-toe with on the canvas. He wasn’t a wrestler, though, not really. And I’m not surprised to be hauling his ruined carcass through the woods.

Legend has it that Fingerfuck Flanagan discovered Tulip when he was working as a bouncer at a strip club called the Slop Shop. He took a sawed-off shotgun off a pair of Samoan brothers with his bare hands in the parking lot, and then worked them over so bad at least one of them ended up in the trauma unit.  


Tulip trained with us for a month, without ever making it into the ring. He wanted to bulk up in time for our Nuclear Winter ’91 pay-per-view. It was gonna be his debut. Ticket sales had been in the low hundreds, and I told him that it wasn’t worth the effort, but he was determined to make a good first impression. It was supposed to be a cross-promotional event, and Fingerfuck struck a deal with some of the boys based out of Crooked Timber to come down for a dust-up.


Tulip got hold of a tainted batch of Metandienone. He didn’t realise it was tainted until his skin started changing colour, bruising like old fruit. I don’t know what it had been cut with – I’m not sure I want to know – but the worse he felt, the more he injected. By the end of his first week on the job he had turned fuckin’ blue.


I sit down on the cracked bark of a dead tree and light a cigarette, staring at the Glory Hole. Man, we had some fun with this fuckin’ thing. I remember throwing some of Curtis’s Daddy’s videotapes in there one summer. How we fuckin’ laughed. He kept them on a shelf in his lounge-diner, in plastic boxes meant for wrestling videos.

When he found that his porno videos had gone missing he beat the fucking hell out of Curtis. Lashed him so hard he needed to wear a fuckin’ diaper to school for more than a month. Curtis’s Daddy served time for that – among other things.

My uncle Lombard told me that they were trading Mr Corliss for fuckin’ cigarettes by the end of his first day in the Big House. His ass was like a Goddamn swap-meet, my uncle used to say. Then he would laugh ‘til he coughed up lung-blood. I would laugh too – just to be polite. There is absolutely nothing funny about that shit…


I heave Tulip into the Glory Hole. He lands with a satisfying ‘plop’, but he doesn’t sink, he just kinda settles on top. Motherfucker. I poke at the bog with a branch. He seems to be wedged on top of a rusted A/C unit. I steady myself on the dirt and try to stomp him down with my boot-heel, but he doesn’t budge.

His eyes have rolled back into his head, and his ugly mouth gapes open in a permanent question. Shit. I plant both feet on his chest and kick out like I’m doing a missile dropkick off the top turnbuckle.

His chest bursts on impact, splattering me with thick, black blood. I scramble across the dead plant matter, and there is an unholy groan as Tulip sinks into the bog. The only parts of him now visible are his fuckin’ wrestling boots.


I trudge back through the forest. Back to the dingy discomforts of my orange Ford Pinto. The pale afternoon sun trickles through the skeletal trees and casts crooked shadows across the dirt. Every time they creak, they remind me of crippled wrestlers, lurching around a badly furnished locker room – all crunched spines, fractured knees and smashed knuckles.

Never let it be said that Testament doesn’t bury its own dead…




I.Marlene Serna

by Horror Sleaze Trash on May 23, 2017

I.Marlene Serna was born in 1996 in Dallas, Texas and currently lives in College Station, Texas. She is a young, American writer who has written poems and short stories. She is a student at Texas A&M University- College Station, Class of 2019.



What does the heart want?



I want love. I want your

heart to be mine. Be

my always my life my light—

I want a thump-thump heart throbs—

heart spans heart yearns heart be mine.



I want your lips. So warm

soft wet smooth, against mine. Glisten

under campus lights, brighten the night,

red bruises—bite—suck—holding—

each other, each other tight

hold my hand, my light my bright—

my sunshine.



I want your trust. Open arms

I empty my hands

I will not leave lie cheat

revealing all, you see through me

noticing, aware eyes

glass to souls—

souls to hearts—hearts to sight

Clear, not—

bought broken shattered shot.



I want your touch. Religion is

capture; rapture

rush rave mark trace pace press feel reach—

pure bare.

Sin is

crime; ecstasy

deep risk tremble shake—

infinite melody.

One day-night; dark-light; soft-rough

bad-good; sin-holy.


I want your hugs. Yes, like gold


I feed I sleep I drink

I dream I hold I need

a step of Faith, we have

Fate. We embrace

Fate, move my

holy dove. One

throne Faith Truth aim.



I want you. We are always

wild, always

young, always

free. You and I, Us, We—

don’t wanna be like them, because We—

can make it ‘til the end

A new age now; sunlight

ignite my dawning. Halo

my heart. Souls

sewn into skies.







First Time



Like a tattoo you give

beautiful pain. First kiss is

sweet—warm. Mystery green eyes

watch—mine; you are my

perfect—size. You smell of

musky—fresh—mint, you taste of

warm—bliss, you feel of

smooth—warmth, you hug of

pure—need, you kiss of

positive light.



Affection, affects

us, prayers granted, we,—

touch feel pull tug bite suck lick breathe us.

We near edge. With

seared souls you lotion,—

my skin with

pure bliss.



Say your Grace, Bless

me, yes I

give thanks, But


holy water’s gonna

burn on me

I ain’t no angel

none gonna

greet me, slow fast breach—

Honey, see

Church, does not

fascinate me—

open mouth

oh, so warm—wet


fist me, labels are just

not, for you—me



Yes us, spread

heat, rush

warmth, pure

need. Please

span stretch pace reach.


Sometimes love drunk or—

is it lust, some nights I

touch, spread legs it’s a—

rush, warm hot wet

I wish it was—

your touch



Trace my

line shape figure

curves on me—

Continuity, Honey

Our limit—

does not exist, we have

our own, Calculus



Mine. Whisper

in my ear, “don’t be shy”

Curtains drawn

Move shape hot grind. We move,

we move, we move as one.



Your lips speak

“I’m good with anything, I’m good with nothing” Yes, I am


You are just so

tempting, so

sweet, like

ice cream. Yes, you are my

first time.






Bed and Fridge


She got me up daily!

Oooh girl, you got me

sprung. You are so

cold-smooth to the

touch. Silver-front black-edges

You burrrrrrrrr me

to sleep. Lay on these sheets that

clothe me. With comfort

Lay on me.


Baby, cool me

Oh, when you spread open

cool breeze. Let me melt

Your ice. You turned on 24/7

plugged in and runnin’ like a

7-eleven. Pull push jump

On me.

I spring I hold I flex

Every edge on you

I will



Oh, you cool my springs

Hungry, I crave

Fill me. Baby

memory foam

Ain’t got nothing on me.


Every crevice corner edge curve

I will plush and

Lull you

to sleep.


Your front is cold

hot in your

Behind. I squish I dip I plush

Sink into my


Baby, whirlpool my



I want to hear you

Bounce. Destress

muscles ease not



Baby, our hearts inside

don’t lie. Half of

the same. Love—

Hallelujah. I pray the Lord

Please just

Stay. Lay on me

We are one of

the same.




Casey Renee

May 21, 2017

Casey Renee Kiser writes for people like herself, assholes with short attention spans who love poetry but got other shit to do too. Her hobbies include hosting tea parties with decapitated dolls and perfecting her koala impersonation. She lives in the small town of none of your business.       DATE NIGHT   ghost […]

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Magnum Photography Awards 2017

May 19, 2017

Official Entry: Magnum Photography Awards 2017 James Gerrard United Kingdom LINK

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Beau Johnson

May 18, 2017

Beau Johnson has been published before, usually on the darker side of town.  Engrossed, he resides there, addicted to Words With Friends.  A Better Kind Of Hate, a collection of Beau’s shorts, will be out August 14, 2017, from Down and Out Books.       HAD SON, WILL TRAVEL                         The first time […]

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John Grey

May 17, 2017

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Schuylkill Valley Journal, Cape Rock and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Louisiana Review, Poem and Spoon River Poetry Review.       HOLY MAN I step like light from the sweet stench of ray cathedral, at best, a shaman at worst, a priest. I […]

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