5 Minute Madness - Kids by William Box

Kids

The red kid ran into the house. He was followed by a blue kid and a green kid. No one understood their words, so they spoke in trapezoids instead. All of the prisms in the house looked at one another. They knew it had been a very long time since anyone had spoken in shapes. The language, they thought, had been lost in time, space, the couch, and everywhere else that things could get lost. Other than the prisms, no one knew the language, so the prismatic triad tried something else. They spoke English. They themselves, however, couldn't understand because none of them knew the language. 

"Would you pickles fellow the trite binding things!" the children demanded. 

The humans in the room didn't understand the words. Humans no longer spoke English. 

They only spoke money and coffee. They never even looked up as they exchanged green rectangles, silver circles, and cylinders of brown, steaming liquid. 

The adults continued to pay for the attention of the TV's and the computers. They needed something to look into their eyes. It wasn't their fault. They didn't know the children would do it for free.

Book Review - Dead Bitch Army by Andre Duza

Let me start by saying that I really like the concept. I have read authors that are hit or miss. I have read books that are hit or miss. But I have never read chapters that are hit or miss...until I read Dead Bitch Army. There are parts that are so stimulating that I could not peel my eyes away, yet there were parts that were so dry that they repelled my eyes like a magnetic field of blah. The "interesting" thing is that the intriguing bits aren't always the same type of scene. At one point there is an interesting fight scene, at another point there is a suspenseful sit-and-wait scene, there is even an instance of a long conversation in a restaurant about a topic that I disagree should be in the book entirely; yet all of these were engaging scenes. Then, there were scenes that should have held my attention. The content was there, but the heart was not. It seemed as if he had a great story that wasn't quite long enough, so he wrote the same story again, this time dry. Then he shuffled the two together. Andre Duza can be (and possibly is) a great writer. I regret that this is the first of his books that I read, but I will definitely read more Duza. I wouldn't feel comfortable with this rating without giving him another try.

Another reason that I had to rate this book lower than I normally would is the editing. Their are misspellings, misuse of words, and even incomplete sentences. These are issues that aren't necessarily the author's fault. They are in the book nonetheless, and this is a book review, not an author review. I have been informed since originally reviewing this book that there are multiple versions; one more edited than the other. I evidently ended up with the original, less edited version, so you may end up with a better copy than I did. In all, the book itself was somewhat entertaining, but somewhat difficult to get through with the editorial mistakes.

2.5/5

First Experience

Bizarro is a more than just a genre. It is often a group of people that can be labeled as a family. And like being a family, we don't choose who our bizarro brothers and sisters are. Unlike a family however, we haven't always been bizarros. We had to come from somewhere. So where did you come from? How did you get here? What was your first bizarro experience and why did you stick around? If you would like to tell us how you came to be, answer in the comments section. As for me:

I'm in the Air Force. Oklahoma City. 0730 hours. Ready for PT. Physical Training. Sun still low in the sky. I'm talking to Airman SomeDumbFuck and from ten feet behind me I hear, "...a labotomized torso. And he fucks her. Then he fucks all the other torsos once a month. He gets them pregnant, and every month there is a new baby. "

"Wait a second. What's this?" Is my piqued interest response. I knew that this kind of thing is the push that literature needed.

"Edward Lee," replies my NCOIC (Non-Commissioned Officer In Charge.)

"I have to read this," I'm sure I blurted this way too enthusiastically. I hadn't really noticed yet, but before I even arrived, the group surrounding the NCOIC was disgusted. Distraught even. The shock factor was what the NCOIC had in mind. The looks I got after my enthusiastic response were priceless.

Soon, smoke breaks with the NCOIC transform from Evaluation Performance Reports to tales and reviews of extreme horror (I prefer the term "splatterpunk") and the bizarre. We make new stories and story ideas as we in- and exhale. Weave new webs of malice and mayhem and what-ifs. Oh, the what-ifs... My mind, nay, my life, changed forever. For the better? Probably not.

I am forever indebted should forever shun this evil man that has perverted my mind with baby Jesuses that thrive inside assholes, people with fishbowls (including the fish) for heads, strippers that strip off their skin, clowns that give away coupons to fighters, vaginas that are haunted. It's all in there. I can never get it out. And that makes me happy.