James D. Casey IV

by Horror Sleaze Trash on August 18, 2017

James D. Casey IV is a self published author of three volumes of poetry that likes a little coffee in his whiskey. His work can be found in print and online in several places including Triadæ Magazine, Pink Litter, In Between Hangovers, Indiana Voice Journal, Beatnik Cowboy, Dissident Voice, Scarlet Leaf Review, Horror Sleaze Trash, Zombie Logic Review, Your One Phone Call, I am not a Silent Poet, Tuck Magazine, and Outlaw Poetry.
“For the Night”
The party was filled
With liquor drinking whores
Nerdy goth queens
And wannabe good girls
Gone bad
Listening to
Hillbilly Moon Explosion
My kinda women
I loved ’em all
Only the lonely
Will understand
The more broken
The better
Just like me
Standing in a corner
Spinning tales
Of sex
And murder
With both friend and foe
Clad in leather
And shadow
When she danced over
Whispering sweet nothings
And other vile things
Into my ear
A big amazon
Beautiful eyes
Long dark hair
Reeking of
Bad decisions
I instantly fell in love
For the night
At least
“Fromunda Sandwiches”
An army of
A million David Bowies
Wearing tetra-colored
Cowboy hats
Ride dill pickle winds
In search of the sacred cheese
To make fromunda sandwiches
And brew ginger vine wine
Beware the sabertooth
Crotch crickets
And the one eyed
Bearded dragon
Sitting aloft his
Mounds of gorgonzola
Guarding the lair of the
Ravenous chocolate starfish
The battle
Has only just begun
“Oder or Chaos”
My day doesn’t always
Start with coffee 
Watching early morning
Sometimes it begins
At 2:30 in the afternoon 
With whiskey
And midget porn
Not necessarily in that
Or chaos 
Whichever you prefer
To tag it as
“once Upon a Time”
Eating fried cheese curds
With the three stooges
In a greasy
Whorehouse orgy
Drinking cigarettes
Smoking rum
Listening to the cats
And piss
All over the damn place
I had a moment
Of clarity
Everything made sense
Until I lost it
When I came in the mouth
Of an old 
Wrinkly butterface
Lady of the night
Sometimes the meaning
Of it all
Can be found
And lost
In the blink of an eye
Or the shooting
Of a load
I guess
The world
Will never know
But I did
Once upon a time

Rev.James Dennis Casey IV
Ordained Dudeist Priest at Dudeism, the Church of the Latter-Day Dude

Ty Spencer Vossler

by Horror Sleaze Trash on August 17, 2017

Ty Spencer Vossler (MFA) currently lives in Tlaxcala, Mexico with his BMW (beautiful Mexican wife) and their daughter. Vossler is a prolific writer, and has published over sixty works in the past two years, including novels, many short stories, poems and essays. He attributes his originality to the fact that he shot his television over two decades ago. He recently published, The Eye of Espinoza, (World Castle Books).



Miranda Rights


Tom’s my best friend. We were roomies at university—studied economics and landed jobs with investment firms in San Francisco. My name’s Chad. I’ve heard all of the hanging chad jokes.

    Tom and I used to meet twice a month—catch a hockey game or knock down a few brews at a sports bar. Lately, it had gotten crazy at work for both of us, so we hadn’t met for a few months. In the Bay, it’s easy to get buried in your job.

When Tom phoned, I was working late at the office. His voice was desperate. He prattled on about some woman he’d met that’d fucked with his head. We agreed to meet for a late dinner at a little coffee shop off of Lombard, the most crooked street in California. 

When I saw him, his head was down and he kept running a hand through his hair and smoking a cigarette. Tom isn’t a smoker. We ordered coffee and he barely looked up when he spoke.

“Ran into her at Books Inc. down on Market,” Tom began.

“Sir, you can’t smoke in here,” said a waiter.

“Sorry.” Tom stubbed it out on the butter plate.

“You still have time to read?” I tried humor to relax him.

“Yeah…mostly erotica.”

“You met her in the porn section?”

Erotica, Chad, there’s quite a difference…Christ.”

“Sorry.” Boy, was he touchy.

“We went for a drink and we talked about E-books. She laughed when I told her I’d rather have a crack to stick my bookmark in.”

“Clever,” I said.

Tom’s story progressed into a jigsaw puzzle with pieces missing, lost in some cosmic couch. When I asked him to clarify parts of it, his answers were as foggy as mornings on the Bay. 

“She did something, I can’t explain—a spell or something,” he said.

“Maybe she’s a succubus?” I tried to loosen him up.

“Seriously Chad, this woman had me confessing shit I’ve never told anyone.”

“Your soul mate.”

His voice turned monotone, “Listen, some stuff is best left alone.”

“She have a name? Sounds pretty interesting to me.”

“Her name’s Miranda and she may call you.”

“You gave her my number?”

“Listen, do yourself a favor—stay clear.”

“Is Miranda an ax murderer?”

“No joke, my friend,” he said, laying a hand on my shoulder and then lifting it off self-consciously.

“What happened, man? I’ve never seen you like this.”               

“Gotta run,” he stood up, threw a twenty on the table, “Talk later.” 

 “Hey,” I protested as he walked away. But the city soon swallowed him.


There were six messages on my landline. The first five were hang-ups, and the last made me fumble junk mail to the floor.

“Hi Chad, my name’s Miranda. Please give me a ring.” She left her number.

“Creepy,” I said to myself. 

I returned her call out of curiosity, bracing myself with an 18-year-old Scotch. She answered with an accent that crinkled like onion paper.

“Thank you for returning my call.”

“Yeah, sure…hey listen, I just saw Tom and he was pretty upset. “

“We mostly talked about you.”

“A sure fire way to ruin a date,” I chuckled.

“Tom really cares about you.”

“Yeah, we’ve known each other for a long time.”

Really cares, Chad.”

“Yeah, Tom’s a great guy,” I waited but there was a pregnant pause. “Oh.” Ice shifted in my tumbler.

“Perhaps we can think of a way to help your friend. He is still your friend isn’t he?”

“Sure…of course…of course he is.”

“Can you come to my apartment, tomorrow evening—sevenish?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” I sounded lame.

She gave me directions and said, “You should be flattered. Tom’s a real sweetheart.”

As soon as the phone was in the cradle, it bleeped again. I let it ring though, and Tom left a message.

“Sorry I left like that. How about the hockey game on Tuesday, my treat? Let me know—ciao.”

I didn’t return his call, and felt like a traitor.                               


Nothing could have prepared me for Miranda. She was impossibly beautiful. I’d seen women like her on the airbrushed covers of checkout stand magazines. 

“Chad, I’m so happy you could come,” she took both of my hands in hers and her feathered accent tickled my ear.

“Sure, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Her almond-shaped eyes were level with mine, which put her at five-ten. Shiny midnight hair fell midway to her back, and she wore a fuchsia filigree skirt and an Indian style blouse. I floated through the door. Her olive skin seemed to glow within the shadowy confines of the dim-lit gloom. Yet, it was her eyes that captivated—a yellowish-green I’d only seen before on Discovery Channel. With nothing more than introductions, she had me collared and licensed. The texture of her voice effectively filtered out all of Tom’s previous warnings.

She gestured me to a green leather sofa, “Do you drink wine?”

“Yeah,” I was her puppy and anything she poured was fine.

“It is a tempranillo from Spain, where I grew up,” she satisfied my question regarding her accent. Miranda’s words are suffused with moisture, the pink tip of her tongue flicking out letter combinations. She poured two glasses and sat close next to me.

“Nice place,” I glanced around.

The coffee table was constructed from an old door. There were oddly shaped metal sculptures occupying corners and tabletops and abstract paintings hanging on the walls—the kind that looks like children using paintball guns on a canvas.

She nodded, “Gracias.”

“So, Miranda…these yours?”               

“The sculptures are not, but the paintings are.” She stood and walked to one that resembled a stairway to nonsense.

“Interesting,” I tried.

“You sound just like an art critic I know.  He says that whenever he doesn’t like something.”

“I didn’t mean to sound…”

Miranda took my arm, “It’s okay. I’m a big girl. Come, let’s sit and talk.”  We returned to the sofa and she touched her glass to mine, “Salud.”

“Mmm, very tasty,” I nodded, “tempranillo eh?”

“Tell me,” she began, “how long have you known Tom?”

Her wild eyes gave me a little time to think, “Since college—ten years,” I stared at the coffee table and fought my sudden urge to knock on it.

“Ever been with a man?”

I nearly spit my wine. “No.” my answer clumsily stumbled out. “Not bent that way.” I felt blood pounding between my temples.

“But he’s still your friend?”

“Look…just because he’s, you know, a little mixed up doesn’t—

“Mixed up?”

“You know what I mean.”

“You’ve never been attracted to men?”

My embarrassment was mixed with growing impatience, “Aren’t we here to talk about Tom?”

“Isn’t that what we are doing?”

“No, actually we’re talking about me.”

“You’re his best friend.”

I took a gulp of wine without tasting it. Miranda curled her legs beneath her like a cat.

“Look, it’s just not my cup of tea.”

“You have a cliché for everything,” she observed coolly.

I was getting tired of being analyzed. “You a shrink or what?”

“Answer the question.”

“Can’t connect dots to everything, sometimes you just have to go with your gut.”

“Very well, I understand that.”

“Good,” I drained the rest of the glass and stood to leave.

She rested her hand on my arm, I eased back down and she poured me another. “Have you ever tried anal sex, Chad?”

Wine entered my nose and I choked. Miranda smiled and patted my back. Christ, I thought, this woman is warped! As I regained my composure, Miranda scooted close, touched my face and kissed me lightly on the cheek. Then, looking straight into my eyes, she kissed me again, and I returned it.

She touched her lips to my ear and whispered, “I want you to fuck me.” Blood no longer resided in my brain. My cock was in charge all decisions.


Miranda led me into her bedroom. From a laptop plugged into a series of small speakers she put on some soft Latin jazz and pulled down the comforter. I began unbuttoning my shirt. She opened the top drawer of a nightstand to take out a tube of jelly. She kissed me tenderly and helped me out of my clothes. Her tongue painted my body and she enjoyed nipping with her front teeth.

There was no doubt she was running the show. She undressed and centered herself on the king-sized bed. Her nipples were tall and brown and I greedily suckled them. Then, I kissed my way down to the fleshy nub of her clitoris, hidden beneath dark, untrimmed pubic hair. She smelled like jasmine and tasted sweet.

“Ayyy, Chad…mmm, that feels nice…”

After a time, I sat up to place my cock at her entrance.  She twisted away, “Not yet.” She pushed me to my back and reached for the jelly.

After teasing my cock with the tip of her tongue, she squeezed a generous amount of jelly into her palm and jacked it over my length. I almost burst, yet managed to master myself. After doubling up a pillow beneath her tummy, she presented herself on hands and knees. She placed another dab of jelly at her asshole and probed it in with her middle finger. I opened her cheeks and gazed in wonder.

“Slow, very slow,” she instructed. 

I circled the rim of her asshole and pushed. Once my helmet made it in the shaft followed. Miranda smelled like a flower garden as I eased in.

“Mmm, that’s it…yes…mmm, nice.”

I fought another urge to spurt as I slipped in deeper. Miranda moistened two fingers with her tongue and masturbated. I stroked back and forth. After a few minutes she sucked in a breath, buried her head in a pillow and cried out. Feeling her flexing around me, I had to give up the ship. I made a final grunting descent and divulged my assets.

“Uh, uh, uh, awww,” I heard myself growl.

“Yes…that feels nice…so warm…mmm.”

I kissed her smooth brown back as I finished draining.  I tried to stay there for a while, but my orgasm had been too strong, and I softened. I shriveled and finally slipped out, followed by wet, frothy flatulence. She let me to enjoy the view for a moment, and then she rolled to her back to allow me on top. We kissed, caressed and I worshiped her until my cock stood at attention again. 

“You’re incredible,” I whispered.               

“Claro qué si,” she answered.

I ran my tongue over a nipple and positioned my cock between her scalloped pussy lips. A cellphone tootled. She stopped me, and at that precise moment I developed a permanent disgust for social networks.

“Sorry, I’m expecting an important call,” she said. I’d already pushed halfway in, and she had to shove me off.  “I have to take this, Chad.”

She went into the living room to talk. When she returned she said she needed to shower and leave.

“Quickie?” I suggested.

“Afraid not, Chad, you’ll have to go.”

My mind was churning with self-indulgent thoughts, yet I held my tongue. “Rain-check?” I said meekly.

“Call me,” she said. “I’m going to shower now.” The texture of her voice was an ill-concealed invitation for me to get lost.

“I’ll let myself out.”

Miranda shuffled over for a courtesy kiss, “Think about what we discussed.”


She raised an eyebrow and disappeared through the bathroom door. I stood by the bed until I heard the shower.  I swallowed painfully and touched the wet spot on the comforter. Then I dressed, made it into the street and leaned against the wall of her apartment building to wait for a taxi to come by. Lifting a hand to my face, I detected Miranda’s scent.

“Fuck!” I balled my fists, and then relaxed. Call later, play her game and stop obsessing. I hailed a taxi. 

 “Where to buddy?” the mirrored cabby’s face was already impatient.

I thought for a moment, and mumbled my address. 


Late that evening I tried calling Miranda twelve times before leaving a message with every contact number I have except for my Social.

A few days later I called Tom, and we went to a, San Jose Sharks, hockey game. It was there that I noticed for the first time, how handsome Tom really is.


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