Fishies. Comic by Dan Smallegange

 

Comic by Dan Smallegange, copyright2018, all rights reserved.

Cat Marxism. Comic by Dan Smallegange

 Comic by Dan Smallegange copyright 2017.

Pound That Drum

 Pound that drum boy

And be sure the world reckons and

Draw out some attention too

With all the motion and commotion beats

That friend and enemy alike

Can hear those lashing hits

Pound that drum boy

That one and all can know and see

Be witness with ears and eyes

That you are here to fight and not hide

This time this

Occassion

Rectification of past errs

Pound that drum boy and

Will them to come

Friend and foe alike

To come and meet us

On the field and in the streets

That they will hear the drum echo

Reverberate

And a reckoning will occur

And our foot falls too they hear

And we shall greet them

As brothers or as enemies embrace

No running away this time

Pound your drum and

Bray to fight

By: Daniel Smallegange

The Path to Perdition, Hitchhiked (Fiction by Daniel Smallegange)

 Hitchhiking our way down the well worn path to perdition. The antagonisms and the lack of a strong drink. Our conscience swarming and disturbing, like flies, like thick viscous smoke. Sordid and well stocked with smiles and fears, walking backwards, thumbs out. Grinning and bucketfuls of vice for companionship, we slither and hop, down and out along the rock strewn pathway to our own and specially anticipated hell.

Fellow travelers roaring past, dodging cans and bottles, wrath and mirth, we light a fire to one another’s heavy breathing and toke it up, hold it in and get the elate. Dancing and supplicating gods and demons both, if there is even a difference. Supplied with pantings and screamings and moans, groans, lust and death, supplied with anger and laughter we stop and rest at a nearby fetid place and revel in the pods of muck filled with all that’s sweet and all that’s black (these the toads sell, along side the swamp) filled with all that’s sweet and all that’s black, excepting also what’s light be also included for the price of one dream and a portion of our last crust of bread. And enter now the salving dreams which come thick and coiled as any pythonic embrace. Our arms also, clinging tight. This and the warmth of fire.

Stars so many jewels in the blackest night, perfect and cold and desolate and so very far. We scoff and sputter well into this night. The violence of truth. The intangibility of happiness and the shocking and terrible ability of our digressions/transgressions. They cling to one, stubborn, like a fine mist or disease incurable. They isolate, decorate, marks of torture or badges of honour all. The violence of truth clashing on our shields of mirth and irony. Dance my love, dance, long into the gentle night.

Laughter in the dark and a stranger's knife in broad daylight, cold against our throat, waking us. Robbed of our last scrapings of sustenance and a few coppers we are free. Our steps so much lighter as we move once more, free and well pleased and placed. Hitchhiking our way down the well worn path to perdition. Skipping and pausing and lapping it up. Grinning like wolves. This case, as in most, the journey so much better than the destination…

By: Daniel Smallegange

Bring Out Yer Dead (short fiction by Daniel Smallegange)

 And so, ‘bring out your dead’ they cried, and came seeking and came finding those dead and those alive also, despite the seemingly specific nature of the advertising. Flushing the streets and those places of rest, salvation and ill-repute of those they deemed enemies of the entity, defilers and defiers of the grace of God, or just plain ruffian scum. Cries of ‘bring out your dead’ and the heavy tread of government issued boots caused howls of fear making friends with protest to ripple and sweep through the boroughs and dens of inequity. This followed also by a general crawling and a running and slithering away as the fearful and/or guilty sought solution and refuge, the sweet embrace of secure walls and locked doors. This while the likes of I, proud card carrying member of Ruffian Scum local 898, lay stone drunk in a pool of self manufactured spittle and brine, clinging to a whiskey tree and ashtray as one would two lovers of extreme and equal talent. Out of mind and blind with sleep, lost to the cries of ‘bring out your dead’ until the hard tread of government issued boots made introduction uncomfortably to my very personal ribs and spleen.

And so they caught me, bound me, raged me, dragged me. I, Union Goon Second Class and humble narrator! What ignominy, ruin, disgrace. Dragged free and away from the asylum of my whiskey tree. My cries of ‘I ent dead’ largely ignored, the source of mirth and much pleasure. Yes, caught, dragged, found and bound like a hare soon for the pot. And I said through lips daubed rouge: ‘But sirs and enemies, I en't dead so much as I know.’ They laughed and spit: ‘Soon to be corrected.’

Desolately drawn, kicked, prodded shoved through the streets, trailing an assortment of fluids, clear or red or green/yellow, thick, thin or viscous. Other’s poor fortune turns to my luck as captors trot off, in pursuit of others, lessen in number. Through the streets roped up like a like a sacrificial dishonoured lover, like a broken bird of prey, like fear and like sin caught in the open day light. ‘Bring out your dead’ more cries of, and the wagon piled three deep with corpses and dust in my eyes making tears of mud and choke. Just hoping to survive the day and welcome the embrace of night. And then we are fewer even and falling behind, isolated and struggle and ropes made looser and reaching and a razor from my boot finds my hand and I am on him, I bite him, I bite him hard, in the knee and in the groin bringing him down and upon the other, said razor between teeth now kissing his neck slowly all the way across and more rouge flowing. ‘Bring out your dead’ he shall cry no more.

Now further freed and it tastes like copper. The velocity of escape. Soon to rest and sleep in the warmth of mud... But first to seek the source of a new and uncompromised whiskey tree.

By: Daniel Smallegange

Best of: Advice from Daniel Carcrash Smallegange (Humour)

 (In no particular order)

No 7: When tap-dancing in a minefield it is prescient not to wear your best trousers.

No 47: If you keep telling your plants they are fat they will develop eating disorders.

No 223: More irony in your diet will both help prevent leg cramps and keep people from the far right confused and at a safe distance.

No 12: It is not ideal to wear sandals when peeing while standing up.

No 86: Never trust anyone supremely gorgeous stopping you on the street. You’re neither attractive nor interesting enough to warrant this.

No 554: The secret to getting fat is drinking all the bacon grease.

No 332 Best Ever Cold-flu Cure: Drink a lot of tequila and fuck a hot stranger. Why it's the best ever cold-flu cure is that even if it doesn't work, you get to drink tequila and fuck a hot stranger.

No 365: A fruit fly in your glass of red wine adds flavour, especially if it is still alive.

No 427: It is not wise to pull a fire alarm when seeking privacy in the public washroom of a large office building as A: you can get really hard to remove ink on your genitalia, and B: sometimes the sprinklers come on during your own private evacuation.

This brought to you by: ‘Pints of Live Fighting Bees’. Shake ‘Em Up and Drink ‘Em Down! See how many pints you can drink before you dial 9-1-1.

By: Daniel Smallegange

My Novel, The City: Tales From the Post-Post Apocalypse is published by Three Little Sisters Publishing.

So my #novel, a collection of post #apocalyptic #scifi short stories 'The City: Tales from the Post-Post Apocalypse' is finally available in new edition. Published by Three Little Sisters Publishing. You can buy the paperback on their website store:

https://the3littlesisters.com/catalog_explorer/the-city/
Or on your local Amazon (For some reason the Cdn $ conversion is really high on here fyi.), Walmart.com, Barns & Noble and many more. Thanks for your support. #postapocalyptic #sciencefiction #dansmallegange #writer #writing